


Afghanistan or Iraq?

by hamishholmess



Series: Soldier John, All Day Long. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Fluff, John in Afghanistan, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content, soldier John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 33,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamishholmess/pseuds/hamishholmess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The admissions office is in that building, room 307,” Sherlock pointed with his cigarette.</p><p>“Thanks, Holmes. I appreciate it.” John was about to veer to the left when he felt a hand around his wrist. He glanced up, grinning like an idiot.</p><p>“Don’t want me to go just yet?” John teased lightly. Had he just flirted with another man? Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit and John felt his wrist go free.</p><p>“If you need help with finals, I’m an excellent tutor in all scientific areas… obviously.” And with that, Sherlock handed John Watson a business card and headed across the lawn. He stood stock still in the middle of the concrete path, watching the trench coat billow as Sherlock moved. So that’s why he wore it, even in May. What a drama queen.</p><p>John glanced at the card in his hand:</p><p>Sherlock Holmes<br/>Consulting Detective<br/>www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to SixNapoleons, whose incredible writing has inspired me to create a gorgeous world of my own. Thank you.

Captain John H. Watson fell onto his cot, shirtless and sweating. The sun was starting to set, but the Middle Eastern heat would linger until darkness fell. He thumbed the corner of the well-worn postcard mindlessly, and traced the cityscape of London with his finger. It felt like ages since he had last been home. He missed the city, missed the masses of people (or rather, feeling safe amongst a mass of people), missed take away and tea and proper shampoo. He missed the rain. He missed him, too.

* * *

 

_John,_

_Hope you haven’t died of boredom or heat exhaustion. I assumed you would like to have a reminder of home, such a sentimental creature, so enjoy the Earl Grey if you can make it. Cannot say I am envious of your cot sleeping. If you care to, come visit on your next leave. I’ve found a flat on Baker Street.  
_

_SH_

 

* * *

 

John stared at the handwriting. Sherlock was the only person who wrote him regularly (post came at least once every two weeks). It helped him feel grounded and less lost as he spent his days wandering in the sand and dirt, with only sun to see for miles.

He unlaced his boots and kicked them off, a shower of sand falling with them. His socks were stained around the ankles from daily sweat and accumulation of the landscape. He found his iPod (his only guilty technological pleasure) and snaked the ear buds in as the rest of his regiment filed in from mess hall. He tapped the screen and succumbed:

 

 

 

> _Hitched a ride to the peaceful side of town_  
>  Then proceeded where thieves were no longer found  
>  Can’t crash now, I’ve been waiting for this  
>  Won’t crash now, I’ve found some encouragement.
> 
>  

The captain’s foot tapped in beat with the 90’s grunge. Behind his closed eyelids, a movie started to roll. He saw Bart’s, back in his university days, before his submission of his CV to the Army Careers Information Office. He saw his feet crunching against freshly fallen leaves, glowing rich reds and oranges against the bland cement of the sidewalk, remembered the feeling of a hot cup of tea seeping into his gloves, the cold of a London winter. Harry at her peak of catastrophe, rolling in at all hours of the morning, his nervous fidget of drumming his fingers on his knees during exams, rugby practice on the fields in the hot of summer. A casual string of lovely women in and out of his dorm in the spring, endless cups of coffee, the first time he met Sherlock Holmes...

 

+

 

John was in search of the admissions office, in order to discuss his CV and graduation information before he submitted his application to the military. He had obviously believed the office was housed in this building, and he had obviously been wrong. He walked down silent halls, growing anxious at the sound of his own heavy footedness. That’s when he heard it. The violin, seeping out one of the classrooms. John walked straight to the door and glanced into the window, somehow expecting a beautiful, redheaded female. He was surprised instead to see a man. A tall, dark haired individual, a mess of curls, eyes closed and arms moving his bow delicately across the thin neck of the dark wooded instrument. He wore black, well-tailored dress slacks and a pressed, white button down. His frame moved in time with the gorgeous piece he was playing. John nudged the door open as the other man had his back facing him. He leaned against the frame and watched curiously, savoring the sound, but also the form, in front of him.

“Thought you might need an audience.” He finally spoke aloud to the dark haired gentleman.

“I was curious as to when you would offer up words,” the other replied, without turning to face his visitor.

For some reason, John wasn’t surprised that the man had detected his presence. There was something… silent about him. He reeked of intelligence and ego. John chuckled.

“I’m John Watson.”

“Congratulations. You’re also a medical student; you’ve had a combined 6 hours of sleep the past two nights, judging by the twitches of your fingers and the state of your eyes. Finals are close for you. How much coffee have you consumed today, just out of curiosity?”

“That’s one hell of a name. And four cups, likely another four to six this evening.”

The musician turned and faced John, taking his violin from his shoulder and setting it on its stand. He strolled up to John (God, wasn’t he a sight in motion? Like darkness itself...) and extended a hand. John unfolded his arms from his chest and met him with a firm grip. His handshake was strong: a pleasant surprise.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock Holmes. An elegant name for an egotistical sod. John decided he liked him. What an interesting face he had: eyes like ice, cold and almost cadet blue in color. His cheekbones were insane, resting high and incredibly defined on his narrow face. And he had the most pronounced Cupid’s bow John had ever seen. Full lips, slightly pursed. John could feel those icy eyes going through a similar process. He grinned.

“So, studying after hours then? Bet it’s nice to have a whole building to yourself.”

“No, this is not the building I normally spend my time in. The professors are idiotic enough to leave the doors unlocked. I come here after lecture to… vent, if you will.”

John felt a smile take his mouth without permission. “You’re in the sciences then.”

Sherlock gave a minute nod.

“You’re intelligent, and far from lacking in the ego category, but you seem less informed about social situations and proper interactions, and mildly heartless, so I would steer away from humanities. You seem honest and concise, not lending yourself to more extravagant majors, such as literature. I might say history, but I don’t know. I don’t pin you as as someone who cares about what others are or are not doing.”

Sherlock smirked. “I’m a chemist.”

John laughed. “Of course you are.”

They stood in silence for a few moments. It wasn’t uncomfortable, at least not for John. He admitted he enjoyed the presence of this multi-talented, oddly attractive chemist, and furthermore, enjoyed knowing Sherlock was just as curious about him.

“I think you understand now that your admissions office is not located in this building.” Sherlock drawled.

“Yes, I realized that, actually. How did you…?”

“Your CV is printed and stored in a clear pocket, which happens to be visible in your bag. You’ve recently run water, I would assume cold, across your face and through your hair, revealing that you might be struggling with a bout of nervousness. One would assume the conversation you were planning to have is an important one. Thus, graduation, future employment, so on and so on. Why else would anyone visit the admissions office?”

“Brilliant..." John breathed. "Right. Yes. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll let you return to your vent session. Enjoy your evening.” John stepped outside into the hall and made his way for the doors to the building.

“John…”

John paused and glanced over his shoulder, curious. “Yes?”

“Would you mind if I walk with you across campus? I know where the admissions office is located, and it's time for my early evening smoke.”

“Sure, yeah. Of course.” John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock disappeared into the room. He heard the hard case opening and closing, clicking shut. Sherlock stepped out, this time covered in a gray, tweed trench coat.

“It’s nearly May, Sherlock, why in hell are you wearing a wool coat?” Speaking the man's name aloud felt second nature, as if John had done it all his life.

Sherlock brushed past him and walked outside into the sun. John, laughing to himself, followed. He heard the click of a lighter and turned to see Sherlock’s cheeks hollowed as he dragged on his cigarette. The end burned a hot red. John, feeling like a traitor, found this act incredibly attractive. He hated smoking, God, he hated it. Sometimes he would turn girls away, even if they just smelled of it. Holmes had become an exception to the aspiring doctor's rule. Sherlock’s pale fingers moved the filter from his mouth and the smoke left his lips. John soon realized he had been staring, and knew Sherlock would have felt it. He broke the trance and instead took to staring at his feet, trying to regain his composure.

“So you play violin as a hobby? I’m surprised by that. The piece you were playing was so elegant.”

Sherlock took another drag of his cigarette and turned to John, raising an eyebrow. “I wrote it.”

Well, modesty was no trait of Sherlock’s, that’s been confirmed. He did seem surprised at the compliment, though. “I only played sax for a few years, so I can’t comment on much. Only that it was wonderful to listen to. I wanted to learn piano, but I don't have the hands for it.” John flexed and wiggled his short, callused fingers.

“Thank… you.”

And obviously, gratitude was also absent on the trait list. Right.

“The admissions office is in that building, room 307,” Sherlock pointed with his cigarette.

“Thanks, Holmes. I appreciate it.” John was about to veer to the left when he felt a hand around his wrist. He glanced up, grinning like an idiot.

“Don’t want me to go just yet?” John teased lightly. Had he just flirted with another man? Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit and John felt his wrist go free.

“If you need help with finals, I’m an excellent tutor in all scientific areas… obviously.” And with that, Sherlock handed John Watson a business card and headed across the lawn. He stood stock still in the middle of the concrete path, watching the trench coat billow as Sherlock moved. So that’s why he wore it, even in May. What a drama queen.

John glanced at the card in his hand:

 _Sherlock Holmes_  
Consulting Detective  
www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk

 

+

 

 

 

 

>  
> 
> _New meanings to the words I feed upon_  
>  Wake within my veins, elements of freedom  
>  Can’t break now, I’ve been living for this  
>  Won’t break now, I’m cleansed with hopefulness.*
> 
>  

John pulled the headphones from his ears, and rose from his cot. He made his way into the hall and walked up to a wash station. Cupping his hands, he splashed water on his face, through his hair. He snagged a towel and stepped into one of the pitiful stalls, drawing a thin canvas sheet closed as he undressed. He knew they had no temperature control, and he was only allotted six minutes of water. He turned the handle and the murky water began to pour from the makeshift shower head. As he ran the bar of soap over all the important areas, he contemplated what he would send Sherlock in return.

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**Thanks for the tea. No kettles here yet, unfortunately, so I’ve been making do with terrible, black coffee. There are worse things. The smell of Earl Grey is enough to remind me of home, so thank you for humoring my sentiment. It’s hot as fuck here, as always. I’d give nearly anything, probably anything, to have an overcast day in London. Kandahar is an absolute drag: nothing but khaki colored filth. We’ve gotten proper electricity; they somehow rigged up a solar panel for us to use.**

**I’ve become grateful for the end of each day that passes peacefully (or as peacefully as they can during war time). Tensions are beginning to build here. As is mine. Tell me more about this flat. I want to hear about home. I miss it. Any good cases, as of late?**

**John**

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes turned on his heels to face his friend. He was beautiful on a stage; his height and dark features were a lovely contrast to the openness of the auditorium that surrounded him. His chin rested in the navy holster that joined with his violin. There was something so calming, so submissive about this stance for Sherlock. The expanse of his neck was left vulnerable and unprotected. It was so different from his normal body language. His eyebrows were bowed in curiosity.
> 
> “So, John, what is it you are struggling with this week?”
> 
> “Do you have to word it in a way that makes me feel like an absolute imbecile? And easy, I’m not bothersome every week. Just… most weeks.”
> 
> Sherlock smirked and removed the dark cherry violin from the crook between his chin and shoulder. “Yes. Most weeks. Five out of the seven we have known each other,” he offered casually.

_John,_

_Solar panels? How politically correct of them. Glad you are wired in, though I know that means little to you. Have you taken a listen to the Collective Soul album I suggested? I thought of you when I heard it._

_The flat is a flat. The woman I am renting from owes me a favor, so I’m getting it at a steal. It’s located in the heart of London, which you know I love. It’s a bit solitary, but I hope to find a flatmate soon. How much longer are you going to be? This “duty” thing is so tiresome. I’m ready for you to be back in the city of smog and gray. I’m keeping company with a skull, for God’s sake._

_Tensions? You’ve captured my attention, congratulations. Tell me more. Mycroft never does._

_SH_

 

* * *

 

John buckled the fastener under his chin. His uniform had him melting; it was upwards of 39°C. The doctor dragged the back of his wrist across his forehead in an attempt to eliminate the beads of sweat that were starting to gather there. He stood outside their encampment, waiting anxiously for something to happen. The past week, they had been told to keep a weather eye on the city, but were given no other information. Operation HERRICK at it’s very best, vague as hell. He was a part of medical squadron, after all. They were the mildest of the rest. In some ways it was reassuring to John – why would a band of healers be taken out? But then on the other, if we are the peacekeepers, we would be easy to destroy. Quite an easy target, indeed.

As he stood guard outside the wretched building they called base, he mulled over the words in Sherlock’s letter. “I’m ready for you to be back…” John thought of the thin skin across Sherlock’s wrists, the pale blue of those fierce eyes, the dark curls falling around those absurd cheekbones. He pictured the object of his affection pacing impatiently through the flat, fingers under his chin. Perhaps he has a cigarette lit, or maybe, hopefully, by now Sherlock has quit smoking. Regardless of how attractive he looked in the process, John hoped he would eventually give up the petty addiction. His best friend was a doctor, after all.

The passerby of Kandahar were blank faced. The children carried weapons far more fearsome than Watson’s own. He eyed them cautiously. Kids eight years of age propped semi-automatic machine guns over their frail, tiny shoulders. John had no idea when or how things would escalate in this life-sucking city, but he knew when they did, it would not go well. The dust shifted with every footstep. Everything was covered in it; the filthy powder was inescapable. One thing was certain: there was no sign of real life here, only empty shells of humans. John nervously checked the magazine of his gun and tucked it safely in the back of his pants. The weight calmed him; it felt familiar. Familiarity had become a danger to John. It served as a distraction; it was an idea so foreign and far away. He missed the second hand smoke from Sherlock’s careless habit. Missed lending a lighter to those lithe fingers. What John Watson would give to trace the jaw line of the chemist’s face. He would give anything. Anything at all.

 

+

 

**In need of assistance with microbiology. Free tonight? JW**

_  
I had planned to spend tonight focusing on a new piece I have composed… care to meet me in our usual room? SH_

  
**8’o’clock fine? JW**

_  
Yes, fine. SH_

 

+

 

John opened the door in the music hall without knocking. Sherlock stood on the stage facing the velvet curtain. His body fluxed in unison with the notes he was creating. The new piece was darker than his others, low and growling and deliciously fierce. It moved between filling every crevice of the hall and hardly any of it at all. It yelled and whispered all at once. It was entrancing, and reminded John of a chase leading to an unfortunate capture.

John listened for a few minutes more, in awe, and once the piece seemed to be coming to an end, he rapped on the wood of the doorjamb. “Do you mind if I interrupt?”

Holmes turned on his heels to face his friend. He was beautiful on a stage; his height and dark features were a lovely contrast to the openness of the auditorium that surrounded him. His chin rested in the navy holster that joined with his violin. There was something so calming, so submissive about this stance for Sherlock. The expanse of his neck was left vulnerable and unprotected. It was so different from his normal body language. His eyebrows were bowed in curiosity.

“So, John, what is it you are struggling with this week?”

“Do you have to word it in a way that makes me feel like an absolute imbecile? And easy, I’m not bothersome every week. Just… most weeks.”

Sherlock smirked and removed the dark cherry violin from the crook between his chin and shoulder. “Yes. Most weeks. Five out of the seven we have known each other,” he offered casually.

The violin found its home in its stand and Sherlock trotted down the short staircase to the auditory seating. He took his place next to John in the third row as he watched the medical student remove his binders and notes and textbooks. John glanced up and nodded at his presence. “You can keep rehearsing, if you want. You know I don’t mind listening.”

John had grown so terribly fond of Sherlock’s way with stringed instruments. It was calming for him, to hear his best friend, a well-known asshole, concocting beautiful, intricate, moving music. John paused as he searched through his bag, quickly realizing he did, in fact, believe this brunette to be his best friend. They'd only known each other barely a month; sure, it wasn't normal to deem someone a "bestie" when you hardly know a damn thing about them... especially when you're in your late twenties. But something was unspoken between the two of them. The chemist was mellow, bearable, occasionally considerate around John. The more time he witnessed Sherlock with other people, the sooner John realized his treatment was far more generous than what others received.  Sherlock never rehearsed in front of anyone apart from John. Watson felt like he held a grand secret about the great Sherlock Holmes: he knew of the little soul he possessed. A Spock in a world full of James T. Kirks, slowly revealing the sweetest bits of his humanity. And they were precious, indeed.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I had planned to take a break at your arrival. I know you need my assistance, so I will give you my full focus.”

“Ah, how kind of you. Thanks.” Occasionally considerate. Yep.

John finally found the proper section of notes in his disaster of a folder. “Okay, so I’m having a hard time with plasmid transmission and transposons.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What is it that you don’t understand?”

“All of it, really. This biogenetic shit is fucking with my head. I should have chosen a different science elective for my final semester. Microbial Genetics and Biotechnology? You’re right. I am an imbecile.”

John’s tutor gave a good, loud laugh. It filled the hall and rang in John’s ears. There was something so satisfying about making this cock of a man laugh. Then, Sherlock began to work. “Well, we know that both plasmids and transposons are components in the cytoplasm, but what type of cell is this particular cytoplasm specific to?”

“Prokaryotic, right?”

“Yes, right, so, we have to remember that plasmids are non-chromosomal and therefore…”

The tutoring session continued on as Sherlock broke down complex ideas into tiny, infantile ones. John was always amazed that, despite Sherlock’s outrageous opinion of himself, he never made John feel stupid or ill-prepared during their reviews. Holmes always said “ _we_.” “ _We_ ” have to remember, “ _we_ ” know, “ _we_ ” can deduce, “ _we_ ” can prove. Sherlock had, in John’s mind, paired them as a team, even though Sherlock already knew everything.

“There are two types of genes inside a conjugative plasmid. Tell me what they are.”

“Erm… shit. They’re oddly named. T… Tra genes and… the other one has a T in it, also. Shit. Oh! OriT! And... they allow the bacterium to form a mating pair with the other organism!”

Sherlock smirked and nodded, stood up and glided back to the stage. John knew their tutoring session was over, and that it had been successful. He packed his bags up and rested his feet on the row of seats in front of him, ready to keep audience as Sherlock continued to play. He watched the elegant man pick up his violin with delicate movements, and bring it to rest on his shoulder. He placed the bow to the strings and John closed his eyes and leaned back, ready to allow the music to consume him.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you actually considering the military?”

John lazily opened his eyes and glanced up on the stage, now seeing Sherlock with his violin and bow by his sides. He looked… defeated, or disappointed somehow.

“Well, yeah. You know this, Sherlock. Why do you ask?”

He stiffly replaced his violin and as he turned his back, all he said was, “no reason.”

 

+

 

“Captain Watson.”

Watson lifted a salute to his forehead as Major Scholto approached. He was tired, his uniform was soaked in sweat and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton rounds.

“You are relieved, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.” With that, Watson stepped from his post and unbuckled the chin strap of his helmet, disgusted at the amount of dirt and sweat that had collected there. He made his way back inside the compound.

After a shower and meager dinner in mess hall, the doctor pulled out paper and a pen. He had developed a bi-weekly ritual. The letter would arrive. He would read it first thing in the morning, mull it over and concoct a response whilst at his post, and then wrote said response in the evening. He had also grown fond of writing his letters with Collective Soul as company. He set the pad of paper and a pen on the bed between his knees, hunching over in a near fetal position as he wrote.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**I’m listening to it as I write. It’s been good for me. Do you have a favorite track?**

**Owes you a favor? What case did you solve for her? And yes, I vaguely remember where Baker Street is… a pretty good part of town. She must be cutting you a good deal, if you’re living there on your own during grad school. How’s that going, by the way? Any new information on your dissertation? You’ve gone through three professors already… It will be a miracle if any of them can make it through another two years with you.**

**I’m eight months in. I should receive leave shortly after one year, but that isn’t promised. I miss the city, too. Been thinking a lot about uni lately, about London. Homesick is an understatement. Be grateful you’re nearly heartless.**

**Major Scholto hasn’t shared much with us, and you know I can’t reveal information even if I had it. All I know is that the number of civilians carrying guns has increased dramatically, and on a daily basis. The Majors relieve us of our duties now, rather than a regular Officer. Kabul was attacked last Wednesday, 37 civilians dead, and 5 soldiers. I keep hoping they will leave the peacekeepers be. But they…we, are the easiest targets.**

**John**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operation HERRICK is the UK military operation taking place in several countries, including Afghanistan. There are soldiers stationed in both Kabul, the capital, and Kandahar. John is part of a medical squadron, 250 Hull Medical Squadron, previously named the 50th Northumbrian Division.
> 
> As a side note, that the marvelous Marcy09 pointed out, the ages of John and Sherlock are 30 and 27, respectively. This puts them at ages 28 and 25 during University moments. Sherlock is working on a doctorate degree (of some sort) in Chemistry, while John is finishing up medical school. He is currently trying to work out where to do his internship.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ran his hands through his sandy hair. It was getting too long. It was incredible how much hotter an extra inch of hair can make a man in a desert. He laced his boots, checked that all his patches were in place, and then made his way to the barracks to perform a routine check. He lingered in the doorway as the soldiers stood at attention. He paced the length of the room. “At ease.” His squadron fell to parade rest. Captain John Watson. Since when had he become a leader? A peacekeeper worth fearing?

 

_John,_

_That’s the second time you’ve called me heartless now. If I had one, I might consider taking offense._

_Mrs. Hudson’s husband was charged with murder in Florida. I made sure he was properly handled. I’ve decided to hold out on the flatmate. You know how particular I am about the company I keep; I’m not sure I could stand sharing oxygen with anyone other than you. Cases have been consistent, but Scotland Yard is enough to make any man want to explore the multiple methods of killing with a kitchen knife._

_As far as my favorite record on the album is concerned, I am particularly fond (what an emotional word, do you see what writing you does to me?) of Shine and Gel*. Of course, the whole album works nicely together… rare for a greatest hits collection. _

_You don’t miss uni as much as you think you do. The professors are fatuous and inane, as usual. What purpose do they serve to higher education if they know so little? Incredibly frustrating._

_Fear not, John. You are a force with a gun, a man of higher intellect (yes, I will admit it. I think you’re bright), and a strong leader. You are a peacekeeper worth fearing._

_Just out of curiosity, what do they feed you there?_

_SH_

* * *

 

John stared absently into his cup of black coffee. He was waiting for the humming of blood to leave his ears. PT was a bitch. His gray shirt was soaked with sweat and every ounce of energy he had previously possessed had been sucked dry where his hands met the ground. He detested push-ups.

He had read Sherlock’s letter three times over. It was a particularly long one, especially for Sherlock. John had grown accustomed to being the lengthy one of the two, so this was a pleasant surprise. The detective’s words made him feel some kind of way, but John couldn’t find the proper term for it. He swished the coffee around in his mouth before swallowing it. His tongue clicked as he mulled over Sherlock’s word choices. _“Do you see what writing you does to me?” “You know how particular I am…”_ but the string of words that hit him hardest was this:

 

> _“You are a peacekeeper worth fearing.”_

John’s fingers tapped the edge of the rickety card table before leaning back and finishing the last of his god-awful coffee. A small smile pulled at the right edge of his lips; what a foreign thing it had become, to smile.

 

+

 

**Passed Microbial Genetics, thanks to a fantastic tutor. Drinks to celebrate, or are you abstinent in that area, too? JW**

_I am a rather superb tutor, aren’t I? I suppose I can pencil in an hour’s worth of “fun,” whatever that is. Time/Location? SH_

**You are such a cock. The Duke and Duchess, 9:00 JW**

 

+

 

John strolled into the pub to find Sherlock in a corner booth. The window seat funneled in all the night lights, glowing rose and gold on his elegant, sharp face. He shrugged off his lab coat and slid in across from Holmes.

“Sherlock’s Night Out, a tale narrated by John Watson.” The blonde gave a gentle laugh and winked at the man across from him.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I ordered two Imperial Stouts. That is one of your preferences, is it not?”

John eyebrows found the middle of his forehead in animated shock. “SO! The great Sherlock Holmes _IS_ going to have a night out tonight! Oh, the data I will collect from this will be truly life changing.”

A lovely brunette in a low-cut shirt set two pints down on the table and then wiped her hands on her apron. “Anything else I can get you, darlings?” She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and rested her hands on her hips.

“No thanks, I think this will do it for now.” John replied with a devilish smile. The waitress blushed and headed back towards the bar.

“How did you know I like Imperial Stout?!” John whispered in a tone of false admiration. He was feeling particularly cheeky tonight, and a bit braver than normal.

“I remember you talking about what beverages you consumed at Stamford’s last house party, and that you had taken a particular liking to this one.”

John sat back against the frame of the booth, finding no words. He had that conversation with Sherlock within the first week of meeting him, and it was hardly an important one. They had known each other nearly three months now, and John was shocked that Sherlock had listened so closely… or in fact, had listened at all. He fidgeted with his watch for a moment and then glanced out the window. He turned slightly to see Sherlock’s reflection in the glass and noticed the detective was watching him. A weird, twisting heat blossomed in John’s abdomen. He glanced up and met Sherlock’s eyes, which, of course, held an unreadable expression. When is Sherlock ever simple, ever easy? John picked up his pint, and without breaking eye contact, all the cheekiness gone from his voice, raised it up. “To you, Sherlock Holmes, for without your friendship, I would most certainly be lost.”

Sherlock lifted his pint, smirking. “And failing Microbial Genetics.”

 

+

 

John ran his hands through his sandy hair. It was getting too long. It was incredible how much hotter an extra inch of hair can make a man in a desert. He laced his boots, checked that all his patches were in place, and then made his way to the barracks to perform a routine check. He lingered in the doorway as the soldiers stood at attention. He paced the length of the room. “At ease.” His squadron fell to parade rest. Captain John Watson. Since when had he become a leader? A peacekeeper worth fearing?

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**Let me know if you develop one, and I will certainly retract my previous assumptions.**

**I’m not sure if there is anyone who could tolerate living with a nutter like you. It’s probably best you don’t share a living space with anyone – too many experiments to conduct and not enough horizontal space. Is that twat Donovan still working with Lestrade? I had really hoped something would have happened to her by now…**

**Gel is pretty fantastic. I also thoroughly enjoy Energy. It’s been a great album to help me wind down in the evenings. We had PT today – I know I’m in good shape, but mornings like these always make me question it. We ran twelve miles, left at five AM. It was well past 36°C when we returned to base. It’s obscene how quickly the temperature rises here. Also, I hate push-ups. Have I mentioned? No? Ah, well. I do. Loathe them, in fact.**

**I’m guessing the dissertation is progressing very slowly there… they should hire you as an expert on all things and that would solve every problem, apart from the fact that no one would register for the program because you’re such an ignorant prick.**

**I’ve been at a loss as to how I should respond to the words you gave me at the end of your last letter. I suppose thank you will have to suffice, but please know they provided the first smile I have felt on my face in nearly half a year. Sentimental, yes. Get the fuck over it.**

**And shit. That’s what we get fed. Black coffee and shit.**

**John**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Duke and Duchess is a real gastropub located in the heart of London, not five miles from St. Bart's.  
> * 7even Year Itch: Collective Soul Greatest Hits 1994-2001.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt Sherlock chuckle underneath him. “Don’t apologize, John. I can be an impossible prick sometimes.”
> 
> John stepped back and used his jumper sleeve to wipe the wet from his face. “Sometimes?” He looked up at Sherlock, swollen and watery-eyed. John hesitated a moment, and decided to continue the sentimental streak. “You are the first person in my life to believe I am something of worth. Thank you.”
> 
> Sherlock picked up his mug and habitually raised his eyebrow. “Yes, well. Don’t get used to it.” And with that, Sherlock walked into the living room, plopped into his gray, leather chair and turned on the telly.

_John,_

_You and I both know you are the only individual that tolerates me. Perhaps I will reserve the spare room for your return. You would enjoy the space. I have found a chair I believe you will like. It’s large, red and rather comfortable. It sort of swallows you up when you sit in it._

_And seeing as my intellect exceeds all those daft, useless professors' combined, they would be wise to hire me. Who needs credentials?_

_I have begun to investigate this idea of sentiment. It’s a hateful thing: consuming and disabling. Currently I am exploring the idea of nostalgia and its correlation with sentiment. It is an interesting emotion, nostalgia. It leaves me both warm and empty._

_If I have calculated correctly, we can assume your leave might take place in November or December. How long does this visitation term normally last?_

_And don’t be so dramatic. I know they don’t feed you bodily wastes… do they?_

_SH_

 

* * *

 

John sat atop the compound, focusing his night vision. The scorching heat had disappeared and now the cold of night was sweeping in, sneaking through his uniform. There were suspicions that an attack may take place on base sometime this week. Political shifts had once again stirred the population in Afghanistan. John had not been able to keep any kind of sustenance down for three days. He was exhausted, weak and well past anxious. The captain leaned back against the mud bricks of the rooftop and watched for heat readings. This was his fourth night shift. Everything was running together.

Sherlock’s last letter was indulgent. John was shocked at the reference to so many emotions, feelings, to so much humanity, in all honesty. He, of course, knew Sherlock felt. He may be a "high-functioning sociopath", but he’s no Vulcan. John had witnessed Sherlock at his very best, and also his very worst. But it was certainly unlike him to speak about sentiment, much less investigate it further. John was curious about what the conditions for Sherlock were like in London. He must be lacking in The Work to turn to petty human emotion for research.

 

+

 

**Just submitted my application. Feeling a bit sick. Mind if I come ‘round? I’d like some company. JW**

_Is that a typical response after moving forward on a life decision? Interesting. I’m in tonight. SH_

**I’m not sure. I always feel anxious before big shifts happen. And is that a “yes, sure, Watson, come on** **over?” JW**

_You know where I am and I did not say no. So yes, obviously it’s a yes. SH_

**Why do you… Christ, nevermind. See you in a bit. JW**

 

+

 

He gently knocked on Sherlock’s door, fidgeting nervously with a loose thread on his jumper. He heard the deadbolt shift and the door swung open. John stepped in to find Sherlock padding softly into the kitchen.

“What a fantastic welcoming committee,” John called out into the dingy apartment. He made his way into the living room and found Sherlock hovering over the stove top in the kitchen. He was dressed in gray plaid pyjama bottoms, his blue dressing robe thrown lazily over his shoulders. Why did he insist on dressing as though he were sixty?

“I had the kettle on, and it began to boil when you arrived. Sorry I didn’t stand and coddle you at the door.” Sherlock’s long arms stretched tall to grab two mugs out of the highest cabinet. “I assumed you’d want tea. You normally drink a great deal of it when you’re nervous. Alcohol was the alternative, but you and I both know I don’t keep a stock of that here.”

“Yes, of course. I can always have tea. Thank you.” John plopped heavily onto the sofa and kicked off his trainers. As he was adjusting the pillow behind his neck, he glanced up and saw Sherlock standing next to him, with a mug in his hand. He had no shirt on and the sharp contrast between the deep navy of the dressing gown and the alabaster tint of his skin was distracting. John reached for the cup, breaking his eyes away from Sherlock’s abdomen, and whispered a thank you. Sherlock stood there a few moments more, his hands empty. John searched the icy eyes and concluded the detective looked puzzled, possibly intrigued. Then they went blank, and he turned to retrieve his own mug from the kitchen.

John took a sip of the steaming beverage. He felt the heat slide down his throat and break up the frozen knots in his stomach. He sighed quietly, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“So you’ve done it then.” It wasn’t a question, and John felt there was a hint of accusation in the statement. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock leaning against the counter, his legs crossed at the ankles. He was staring at John, eyes unwavering and looking a bit sadder than before.

“Yes. Yes, I have.” John began to wonder if coming here had been a good decision. He felt pinned, like he had done something wrong. “I can’t help but feel as though you are bitter about something. Care to share with the class?” His tone had been more biting than he intended, but so be it. Watson wasn’t a dunce. He had noticed the shift in Sherlock’s behavior every time this subject arose. “Think I can’t handle it?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit, a genuine look of shock overtaking his intriguing features. “Honestly John, don’t be a fool.” His eyes dropped to his tea, and he took another long sip.

“Don’t avoid the conversation. I’m not a fool. I do notice, in fact, when your behavior changes, and every time this comes up, you become a cold, guarded prat. So, on with it, then. Spit it out, _detective_.” John felt heat rising in face, knowing his ears were turning pink with anger. This was his best mate, the least he could do is show a little support.

The man in the kitchen was quiet and John defiantly cocked an eyebrow. “I’m fucking waiting.”

Sherlock hung his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Christ, John. I’m not being a prat.” John sat seething. Sherlock’s icy eyes found John’s deep ocean blues. John was taken aback by the expression on Sherlock’s face: it was one of pity, and fear, and god forbid, affection? Compassion? No. It could not be. “You are a fine man, John. Bright, kind, clever occasionally. You have put yourself through medical school, which is an accomplishment to take great pride in…”

“Your backhanded compliments are not going to neutralize this conversation, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s voice rose, quick and near bellowing: “You are risking your life for Queen and Country. If you are recruited, you will surely serve a tour in Afghanistan. Of course, your squadron will benefit greatly from your presence there, but you will rot. Of all the things you could choose to do, I cannot understand how this is what you think you want. You are worthy of so much more. They will not appreciate you, they will not take care of you, and if you die, all we will get is an indifferent letter, possibly your dog tags, and maybe a limb or two. I’m sorry it upsets you, but I cannot support that.”

John sat up straight on the couch. He exhaled the stale air he had been holding in his lungs and felt the prick of tears well in his eyes. He stood slowly, set his mug down on the water-ring ridden coffee table, and walked to where Sherlock was standing in the kitchen. The chemist would not make eye contact with him. He was staring at one of the chipped tiles in the floor. John could see shame in Sherlock’s body language; he knew this man never revealed how he felt to anyone. The blonde pulled the cup from Sherlock’s hand and set it on the counter behind him, and carefully wrapped his arms around tall man’s middle. He felt Sherlock stiffen, but didn’t care. John had never been more wrong. It wasn’t that Sherlock believed him to be inadequate. Holmes was mad because he believed John should have better. John sobbed in Sherlock’s dressing robe. He felt a strong, cold hand wrap around his shoulders and the other pressed John’s head further into his chest. John felt more terrified than ever of the application he just submitted, and hoped there was a glitch in the system, or that someone would deem him unworthy of Queen and Country. They stood there a while, Sherlock holding him tight and John shuddering through fits of sobbing. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” he finally managed. “I could never do what you do. I am obviously quite horrible at deducing things of importance.”

He felt Sherlock chuckle underneath him. “Don’t apologize, John. I _can_ be an impossible prick sometimes.”

John stepped back and used his jumper sleeve to wipe the wet from his face. “Sometimes?” He looked up at Sherlock, swollen and watery-eyed. John hesitated a moment, and decided to continue the sentimental streak. “You are the first person in my life to believe I am something of worth. Thank you.”

Sherlock picked up his mug and habitually raised his eyebrow. “Yes, well. Don’t get used to it.” And with that, Sherlock walked into the living room, plopped into his gray, leather chair and turned on the telly.

 

+

 

John saw the sun sneaking up to the horizon. It was finally dawn. He lifted his fingers to wipe away the wetness from his eyes. Emotions at night were one thing: others couldn’t see you. But Soldier John had to come back with the sunrise. It was part of the job description.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**Nostalgia is a bitch, isn’t it? I’ve been enduring the same illness.**

**I can’t tell you how badly I want a normal bed. Are you really considering holding out that room for another two years? Can you even afford that? I won’t be offended if you change your mind. I’d rather you eat and have a flatmate. Although, the chair sounds fantastic, and you should save it for me. Don’t let Mycroft use it, that bastard.**

**There has been no word on which month my leave will be, I suppose it just depends on how things go here. December would be nice. We usually get two weeks to a month of leave. I’d love to be home for Christmas, but so would every other soldier who has been away from the people they love for nearly a year. I’m not sure I deserve that. I have little family left, and mostly look forward to your company upon my arrival home.**

**Send me a picture of the skull that’s been keeping your company. I want to see if we carry any resemblance.**

**John**

**PS – me? Dramatic? If your middle name wasn’t Scott, it would be dramatic. Sherlock DramaQ Holmes.**

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eat something light this morning, don’t forget to reapply deodorant, and drink a cup of tea. SH
> 
> Oh, yeah, you’ll be great and all that other stuff. SH
> 
> Knock them dead. And please, make it an interesting case. SH

_John,_

_What an odd request, to receive a photograph. Meet Billy:_

_John, I must inquire what is wrong. The handwriting of your last letter is out of character. Are they giving you any rest? I know you can’t function on three hours per evening as I can. Also, your paper is water stained in several places…_

_I was able to pry enough information from Mycroft to understand that things are not well there. Please respond as soon as you receive this so I know you are safe._

_Don’t be idiotic, of course I will hold the room for you._

_Sherlock_

 

* * *

 

John woke to a deafening roar. Every window was glowing red. Frantically, he scrambled from his cot, grabbing at his uniform, hastily lacing his boots. The ground reverberated underneath him. He thought it would open up and the flames of hell would swallow him whole. The window panes shattered, and darkness consumed him.

 

+

 

**They’ve contacted me for an interview. JW**

_Our government is in much worse condition than I previously believed. SH_

_Congratulations, John. SH_

_When is the interview? SH_

**Next Thursday. I’ve no idea what to wear or what to say. My stomach feels like I’ve eaten acid. JW**

_Home? SH_

**Yes. JW  
**

 

+

 

John woke to fire in his lungs. The room was covered in ash. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, feeling warm liquid running from somewhere near his left temple. He hacked, covered his mouth with the inside of his shirt, and hastily searched the storage in the hall for a gas mask. After five huge gasps, he felt the fire in his chest turn to embers. He flicked on his maglight and began his search for bodies.

 

+

 

“This isn’t too formal?” John asked, examining himself in the well-tailored suit.

“If this is the interview that will lead to your lifelong career, then no, John, there is no such thing as too formal.”

John was in a dark grey suit, nearly charcoal in color, with a pale blue button up underneath. It clung to him the same way Sherlock’s clothes did. He shuffled uncomfortably.

“Honestly, John. Relax.” Sherlock ran his hands across the shoulders of the suit, dismissing tiny bits of lint. “You look great.”

John’s eyebrows perked up as he watched Sherlock in the mirror. “You think so?”

“Yes. Stop hunting for compliments. It’s childish.”

 

+

 

Screaming filled his ears. The sound of sirens was deafening. There were bodies in the street, black and limp against the red of fire. He knelt next to his first patient: it was a young girl. Hot, fresh blood was trickling down the side of her head, and had begun to dry and mat in her long, black hair. She couldn’t be older than eleven years of age. John rested his hand on her cheek and looked straight up at the dark, glowing, unforgiving sky. He blinked away the tears. Stabilized, he turned back to the young girl. She was still breathing. “Come on, sweetheart. Open your eyes, please.” The child turned her head toward John. Her eyes were huge and brown and full of tears. “There you are. Hi, hello. My name is Captain Watson, and I’m here to make you better. Would you mind telling me your name?” Watson desperately hoped the girl understood English. Most of the younger children living in Kandahar and Kabul did, but that didn’t guarantee anything.

“Aaina.” Her voice was nearly gone.

“It’s going to be okay, Aaina. I’m going to fix you right up.” John’s voice cracked at the end, as he absorbed the irony of the situation. Aaina meant mirror. He opened his medical kit and got to work.

 

+

 

_Eat something light this morning, don’t forget to reapply deodorant, and drink a cup of tea. SH_

_Oh, yeah, you’ll be great and all that other stuff. SH_

_Knock them dead. And please, make it an interesting case. SH_

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

_John,_

_I haven’t heard from you in three weeks. The news this morning stated eight soldiers lost their lives after an attack in Kandahar (and you know I NEVER watch the news). You’re too clever to be one of them, so stop being an insensitive prat and respond._

_Sherlock_

 

* * *

 

John woke to a world of white and the beeping of machines. He lolled his head from side to side, and, after deciding it was safe, fell back into a catatonic sleep.

 

+

 

_Don’t you have to complete an internship to be considered a doctor? SH_

**Of course. During my interview, they mentioned they preferred their doctors serve out their internships on base in an army hospital. JW**

_Sounds dull. So much for St. Bart’s. SH_

**Dull, perhaps. But affordable, efficient, and sensible. JW**

_Did you just describe yourself in 150 characters or less? SH_

**Piss off. JW**

 

+

 


	7. Chapter 7

_John,_

_Mycroft is unreachable, as he is conducting legwork in South Korea._

_I have nothing to provide me information on your status._

_Please, John. For fuck’s sake, tell me you’re alive._

_Sherlock_

 

* * *

 

John winced as he reached up for the letters. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He waited for the soldier to walk away before eagerly shredding the envelope of each letter. He had been out of commission for two weeks, and their squadron had not been able to receive mail for nearly a month.

He had saved thirteen lives that night, fifty-two if you include the lives his squadron had recovered and healed. Three buildings had been wired and triggered by suicide bombers. It was a miracle their base had not housed one of them. He subconsciously rubbed his chest where bandages covered the healing holes that led to his lungs. One of the buildings had still been burning, and John had retrieved a five year old boy from the licking flames. His lungs had been severely damaged, and his time in hospital had spanned nearly two weeks. He was finally starting to feel bits and pieces of himself return.

He identified the first letter by the photograph. He chuckled, and though it stung like pure misery, he was so glad to feel it. He felt crow’s feet tickle his eyes and the pits of his cheeks ached from a full faced grin. Sherlock had actually sent him a photograph of the skull. AND, he had named it Billy.

The next letter was different. Sherlock’s handwriting wasn’t as easy to read, though it never really was, and he had given no regard to the lines on the page. He also signed his name…

The last parcel nearly broke John’s heart. It was tear-stained, and the writing was barely legible. Some of the letters connected together, speaking to the frenzy it was written in. And he swore. Sherlock only saves foul words for two very special occasions: absolute fury and precious drunkenness. John never thought he could see his best friend’s name and associate it so closely with agony.

 

+

 

**I leave for basic in six weeks. JW**

_Why would one leave London in order to attend something “basic?” SH_

**Don’t be a tit, Sherlock. I’m a bit nervous, too. JW**

_Self-inflicted. SH_

 

+

 

John rolled over at three in the morning to hear his mobile ringing. “Hrrrrhgg,” he growled in his zombie like state. He pushed a button to shut it up, and rolled back over.

Three minutes later, the phone buzzed and then rang again. John sat up in bed, rubbed his hand over his eyes and grabbed the phone. “’ullo?”

“Johnny?”

“Harry? The fuck are you calling me at three am?”

“Can you… can you come get me?”

The hair on the back of John’s neck rose, quick and fierce. The tone of her voice chilled him to the bone. “Of course, Harry, where are you?”

“I… I dunno. I’m in the back of someone’s van, but I’m pretty sure I’m somewhere in Brixton.”

Goddamnit. “Okay… do you know of any places you’re close to? A land marker, restaurant, anything?”

Then the line went dead.

 

+

 

**Are you awake? JW**

**Sherlock, pick up the fucking phone. JW**

**It’s Harry. JW**

 

+

 

John heard a rap at his door. He opened it wide and Sherlock swept in, coat and all. John glanced out the entrance into the rain-soaked road and saw a black car parked on the curb.

“Mycroft found her.”

John and Sherlock stepped into the car. The city was dead and eerie; no one ever saw this side of four o’clock. The driver followed a series of backstreets, to where, John had no idea. He clenched his jaw as he glared out of the myriad of droplets on the window, distorting the buildings as they passed. This was one time too many he’d had to rescue her. He was so grateful for Mycroft (a true first), but he had a sick feeling inside him. Something was terribly wrong. They stopped outside an abandoned warehouse.

“Come on, John.” Sherlock was up and out. John tucked his gun into the back of his trousers and followed him into the darkness.

It was damp and cold. Wind pushed through the broken panels of glass and brick, whistling and stirring rubbish across the floor. It felt like ages before John found Harry’s shoes with the flashlight. She was lying limp in the corner, wearing nothing but a tank top and jeans. “For fuck’s sake…” John lifted her face and her lips were too cool. Her color was off, her skin clammy to the touch. John took her pulse; it was running rampant. Watson tried to take a few steadying breaths to hold himself together, but it was proving to be difficult. Tears blurred his vision.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing him tight. “Focus, John. She’s going to be fine.” Sherlock’s voice echoed in the warehouse, replacing the cold wind with warm baritone. He lifted Harry’s arm and found a series of bruises on the soft skin inside her elbow, following the lines of her veins. He looked up at Sherlock with terror in his eyes. And then his best friend was maneuvering behind Harriet, working his arms under her shoulders. “On three, we lift her.”

 

+

 

John stepped out of the hospital room and began to pace the hall. Sherlock had vanished, his sister had well past a lethal dose of heroin coursing through her body, and it was 5:15 in the morning. “This is fucking absurd,” John muttered. “Why am I always the one? Always fucking taking care of someone else. No one ever fucking takes care of me.” Tears stung his eyes. He hastily ran a hand through his damp hair, shoving his other hand deeper inside his pocket.

“Now that isn’t entirely true, John. Don’t be so dramatic.” John glanced up and saw Sherlock with a steaming cuppa. The tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. Sherlock gave him a small smile and extended the hot beverage. “This’ll help. Doctor’s orders.”

John could have kissed him.

 

* * *

 

**Sherlock,**

**I am so sorry. God, I am so sorry. I’m okay, I’m fine. I seared the insides of my lungs the night of the bombings and was hospitalized for two weeks. We haven’t been able to receive mail for nearly two more, since base has been compromised and they wanted us to keep a low profile. If I could have contacted you sooner, please know I would have. I cannot imagine being on the other end of this situation. It would have nearly killed me.**

**I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being here, for not taking your advice and staying in London. For not knowing you finding me worthy of your friendship and doing great things was more than enough to stay. You were enough to stay, Sherlock. You are. I am a fool.**

**John**

**PS – I’m disappointed. Billy looks nothing like me. His nose is much longer.**   
**PSS – You signed your name. Don’t switch back. I like it better this way.**

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_John,_

_Glad you’re safe. I suppose I understand the delay in your response. Being unconscious and in and out of surgery could leave a man too discombobulated to write. Unless you’re me, of course. Which you aren’t._

_How many lives did you save? I know you kept count._

_Sherlock_

_PS – Don’t you dare do that again, John Watson. Don’t you dare. I couldn’t live through it twice._

 

* * *

 

 

+

 

**Stamford wants to do a pub crawl my last night in London. I know it isn’t really your scene, but it’d mean a lot if you’d come. JW**

_Whatever makes you think I wouldn’t want to crawl through pubs with you and Stamford? SH_

_Send me the details. I’ll be there. SH_

 

+

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**No one else on this earth could be such a dick all the time. We leave that job to you.**

**Personally? Thirteen. My squadron saved fifty-two. Please recall that I saved one of my patients from a burning building. I think that counts as seven lives, not one. If you ask me… which you didn’t.**

**I’ll do my best. Swear to God.**

**John**

**PS – Remember that night we saved Harry? What'd I'd give to have you in the hall, passing me a hot cuppa.**

 

* * *

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why aren’t you as happy as I am?” Sherlock slipped between the barstool and John’s thigh. “Hmmm?”
> 
> John felt his breath catch in his chest at the proximity of Sherlock’s waist to his own. Instantly, his cheeks heated. He looked incredible tonight; he wore a pale green button up under a black suit, topped with a deep pine colored tie, now drunkenly loosened. It did amazing things to his earth flecked irises.
> 
> “You aren’t the one shipping off tomorrow, you sod.”
> 
> “Self-infliiiiicteddddddd!” Sherlock sang aloud. A giggle bubbled out of his throat. Was that right? Yes, Sherlock had just giggled.

 

_John,_

_I’m not sure you can count it as seven since the act put your life at risk and scalded the insides of your lungs. Imbecilic move, at best. Good work, Watson._

_“Swear to God”? You know that means nothing to me. Might as well say "I swear to socks."  
_

_How could I forget Heroin Night with Harriet? First night in ages I was grateful for my otherwise unfortunate relationship to Mycroft._

_And odd. I was just thinking how interesting it would be to have you here, at Baker Street. Sitting in your red chair, drinking a hot cuppa._

_Sherlock_

 

* * *

 

Captain Watson received two letters that morning. One was expected, the other…

Harriet’s address was scribbled on the top left corner of the worn envelope. She never wrote. Perhaps she was concerned like Sherlock had been, though obviously not to the same degree. John shook his head to dismiss the thought; he knew better. Pathetic. His own sister cared less than his best friend did. John worked it open with his thumb, and reaching in, extracted a clipping from a newspaper. A tiny slip of paper was stapled to it.

“John, I’m sorry I can’t tell you in person, or even over the phone. It was a fortune to get this tiny thing overnighted to you. The funeral is Sunday.” John’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach, dread wrapping its icy tentacles around every vessel in his body. He lifted the slip of paper:

 

 

 

 

> _In remembrance of William Hamish Watson. At age sixty-four…_

John was certain November in Afghanistan had never been colder.

 

+

 

“Watson!” Mike Stamford was waving outside the Duke and Duchess, cheeks rosy.

“Stamford! How are you, mate?” John jogged up and slung his arm around Mike’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze.

“Sad to see you go, buddy, but ready for a night we may not remember!” He chugged the rest of his pint and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“He should be—“

“Greetings, Stamford,” came the warm drawl John had grown to love.

“Hullo, Sherlock! Glad you could make it out.” Mike grinned, and after finding his footing again, walked inside the pub.

John turned to his taller half and smiled. “I’m glad you could make it out, too.” Without thinking, he reached up and gave Sherlock’s right arm a squeeze, just below the shoulder. It was an oddly affectionate gesture for John, and his eyes widened a bit at his own action. Sherlock’s expression shifted to one of curiosity and amusement.

“I recommend you don’t drink more than 443mL per bar, or every hour, whichever comes first. I’ve calculated your body weight and estimated your alcohol processing.”

“Right." Buzz kill and he hadn't even begun.

 

+

 

John stared blankly at the dirt floor. He sat on his cot, his head between his knees. He felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. The dirt shifted, then settled. He felt hollow, like someone had taken a teaspoon and scooped out his insides as if they were pumpkin seeds on Halloween.

 

+

 

“JAWNNNN.” Watson glanced up to see Sherlock stumbling over to the bar, grinning stupidly. John sniggered at his own cleverness. He had dumped two extra shots into Sherlock’s drink, and had every intention of doing it again before the night was over. He knew it was likely he’d never witness his best friend this intoxicated again, and was not even a bit remorseful he was taking full advantage of the situation.

“Jawn. How many drinks have you had?” John’s insides grew even warmer at the way Sherlock had begun to say his name. John, with an “awwww” in the middle, rather than the normal, stiff, perfect “oh.”

“This is my fifth pint, Sherlock.” And he was barely buzzing. This night was a hard one for him. Knowing he would be shipped off to basic at 0600 tomorrow was painfully sobering. He was desperately trying not to think about it.

“Why aren’t you as happy as I am?” Sherlock slipped between the barstool and John’s thigh. “Hmmm?”

John felt his breath catch in his chest at the proximity of Sherlock’s waist to his own. Instantly, his cheeks heated. He looked incredible tonight; he wore a pale green button up under a black suit, topped with a deep pine colored tie, now drunkenly loosened. It did amazing things to his earth flecked irises.

“You aren’t the one shipping off tomorrow, you sod.”

“Self-infliiiiicteddddddd!” Sherlock sang aloud. A giggle bubbled out of his throat. Was that right? Yes, Sherlock had just giggled.

 

+

 

“Captain Watson?”

Had someone called his name? He felt like he was wrapped up in bubble and everything, every sound was distorted. They must be mistaken. There was no Captain here. He was just a boy.

“Captain Watson?”

John shifted his eyes up, waiting for them to focus. “Major.” He flinched at his own voice.

Major Scholto knelt next to his officer. “John? Are you alright?” He was whispering.

John laughed. It was a short, bitter, hateful sound. He handed the clipping to his commanding officer. “Better than ever.”

Major Scholto placed his hand on John’s left shoulder and squeezed, his typically cold eyes now warm with empathy. “I’ll get you home, son.”

 

+

 

John helped Sherlock into the cab. He shimmied in next to him, using his shoulder to prop the detective up. The door closed and they were gone from the curb. Minutes passed in silence. Sherlock hiccuped.

“Jawn. Why are you leaving me?” Sherlock slumped in his seat until he could snuggle into the crook of John’s neck. “I don’t want you to go.”

Heavy breathing fell over his other half, his better half, and as Sherlock slept, John silently wiped away the rivers pouring from his eyes.

 

* * *

 

**Sherlock,**

**I may take you up on that offer sooner than I believed. I am arriving at Heathrow Saturday morning. Do you mind if I stay with you at Baker Street?**

**My father's funeral is Sunday.**

**John**

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_John,_

_My deepest and sincerest condolences, my friend. Of course you can stay at Baker Street. I will prepare the room._

_Sherlock_

 

* * *

 

John Watson boarded the plane. Others around him watched carefully as he placed his carry-on above his seating assignment. He looked ill: exhausted, gaunt, and all the beautiful glint that lived in his eyes had tarnished into dull, steely nothing. His skin matched the lightest colors of his uniform. He took his place in the middle seat, between an older man and a teenage girl, and snaked his headphones in. His head sunk back into his seat, and he closed his eyes and pushed play.

 

 

 

> I leave the cage wide open  
>  I give no words of caution dear  
>  So when you're done revolving  
>  I only ask your presence here*

 

+

 

“I’m only going to be in Surrey, Sherlock.”

“For four months.”

“You can visit, you know. It’s not an hour from here.”

“What a childish concept.”

John stood at the train station, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Sherlock was being an absolute prick. He was hung over from the night before, and John was exhausted from anxiety and lack of sleep. He breathed deeply and reminded himself to unclench his jaw. His dentist had mentioned he’d crack a molar if he continued on the way he did.

Sherlock stood with his hands shoved deep into the Belstaff. He was looking at anything other than John. The train began to roar into the station and the wind from it blew Sherlock’s curls away from his face. They danced, momentarily suspended in the air.

Watson uncrossed his arms and set his duffel bag on the ground. He placed his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He was met with silence. “This is what I have to do. I’ve committed to it; it’s the most sensible route to a final destination for me.”

“And what destination is that, exactly?” Sherlock spat. The words were nothing special, but they stung like venom.

“Established. Successful. Not in any more debt than I already am.”

Sherlock turned his face away. The brakes of the train squealed to a halt. John witnessed one, solitary tear fall to Sherlock’s cheek. Acting on instinct, he took his thumb and gently wiped it away. He then tucked two wild curls behind Sherlock’s ear. It felt like home, to touch him. “Sentiment. It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes swimming. “Yes. It certainly is.”

John picked up his duffel, dug his ticket out of his coat and walked toward his train. “Come visit once you’re done being a sap,” he called over his shoulder. It was the only way he could avoid yet another dagger to his heart.

 

+

 

John ghosted off the plane and through customs. He stepped off the last stair of the escalator and headed toward his baggage claim. The crowd slowly began to gather and the luggage was spat out of the center and distributed across the cold metal. His camouflage duffel surfaced. By the time he registered it, another man had already scooped it up. John walked towards the man, bristled. He went to tap him on the shoulder, but paused. The gray, wool trench coat billowed as the brunette turned around, and then John was staring at that face. Metallic gray eyes, so different but exactly the same, brown curls tamed and trimmed, and those absurd, ridiculous cheekbones. Air left him in the form of a gasping sob. In one short step, he was in Sherlock’s chest, breathing in his smell (formaldehyde, something warm and spicy, like nutmeg or cinnamon, and London. God, he smelled of rain and damp and smog and _home_. It was heaven), holding on for dear life for fear that when he opened his eyes, the man would disappear.

He felt the long arms wrap around him, making a refuge for him inside his silly coat. John felt Sherlock’s chin rest atop his head.

“John.”

The ‘aw’ had not gone away. John melted into him.

 

+

 

_Do you have plans for the weekend? SH_

**I’m bunking at a military base in Surrey. What do you think? JW**

_Company? SH_

**Love some. JW**

 

+

 

The cab ride was silent. John was overwhelmed; he had been practically dead three weeks ago, his father died only days before, and now he was sitting next to the only man that gave two fucks about him, heading to a flat he’d never visited in a city that felt foreign. How could home feel foreign? Had it already been an entire year? Kind faces passed through the windows, young children in scarves and silly hats, clouds of smoke rising from chimneys.

How the fuck could he ever go back to that hell hole? How does anyone return after leave? They may have to hunt him down.

The cabbie parked on Baker Street. Sherlock paid the fare and insisted on getting John’s luggage from the trunk.

“221b Baker Street. It has a nice ring to it.” It was the first time John had spoken since boarding his plane.

“I think you’ll find it comfortable.” Sherlock smiled and opened the door. “Up the stairs, John.” His boots felt heavy on the creaking staircase, the wood worn light in the center of each step.

“All the way to the top?”

“Yes, that’s where your room is located.” John’s heart skipped. His room. He opened the door, feeling Sherlock close behind him. The walls were a mossy green. The bed had been made; a gray duvet with green, flannel sheets. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture: a dresser, a side table. But it was perfect. Sherlock stepped in next to him and set his duffel on the bed.

“I’ll let you unpack your things and get comfortable. There are pyjamas and warmer socks in the top drawer. I thought you might need some. I’ll be in the kitchen.” Sherlock was out the door and trotting down the stairs. John sat on the bed, his bed, and began to unlace his boots.

 

+

 

John rapped on the door that led into the other part of the flat. It swung open and Sherlock was in gray, plaid pyjamas and the blue dressing robe. Watson’s heart clenched at the beautiful familiarity of it. So much about Sherlock was different, but then, nothing was. “You don’t need to knock. Please. Help yourself.”

He was milder, John concluded. Subdued. Of course, John had almost died, and now his father was, in fact, dead. He supposed that being subdued in a situation like this would have been suiting. He stepped farther into the flat. It felt like Sherlock. Cluttered, papers pinned to the wall, the furniture was worn in and looked well loved, the kitchen table was full of beakers and test tubes. Two windows let sunlight dance in long panels across the rug and a desk, revealing precious dust particles, floating along.

“Sherlock, this place is perfect for you.”

“I’d like to think so, yes.” He padded softly into the living room, extending a cup of tea. “To take the edge off….” Sherlock smirked, and then gestured towards a chair. John turned towards it and realized it was his chair. Red, and so perfectly worn in. A Union Jack pillow sat in it, dead center. Queen and Country. Tears stung his eyes. He wouldn’t go back. He couldn’t leave this place. This is where he should have been, all along.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**It’s ridiculous. I’m writing you from my bedroom. But I want you to know something. It’s a sentimental something, so just prepare yourself:**

**I’m so glad you exist.**

**John**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Homecoming, Collective Soul


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock squeezed the place where John’s neck met his shoulder, and the doctor placed his hand over the larger, pale one resting there. Silence nestled in comfortably between them.
> 
> “It’s good to be home, Sherlock.”
> 
> “It has not been home since the day you left.”

John woke in a fit of tears, his heart thudding recklessly in his chest. He panicked, unfamiliar with his surroundings. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing. Opening them again, he realized he was in 221b, wrapped up in his own flannel sheets. They felt too luxurious against his skin… too soft, too kind, compared to the rough canvas of his cot back… home? No, that wasn’t home. He felt a stab of sickness at the fact that he had even rolled the word over his tongue. He shed the covers and lightly stepped onto the hardwood, deciding on making a cuppa until he could settle himself again.

He took the stairs slowly, hoping to not wake Sherlock. He had no idea what time it was, but gauged it was between three and four. He walked into the living room to find Sherlock sprawled out on the nearly-too-small sofa, telly on and muted. He was sound asleep, his chest moving with deep, heavy breaths. One hand had fallen over the side of the couch, index finger barely grazing the rug. One knee was bent, causing his foot to tuck under the knee of the opposite leg. His head was propped up on the Union Jack pillow.

John stood there a moment, soaking in a part of Sherlock he had never really witnessed before: Sherlock at peace, Sherlock asleep, Sherlock quiet. Had this man really made a habit of falling asleep on the sofa with a nightlight on? That’s what the telly reminded him of – it offered no sound, no voices to keep a presence or make a space feel less empty... it was just a light. John remembered Sherlock up at all hours of the night, tinkering under a microscope, or dragging on a cigarette as he sat folded into himself on a chair. Somehow the man never managed to look tired, but right now, as John watched him sleep, he thought he looked older. He was technically, but John saw it in another way. His eyes had gone grey and fierce in a way he was unfamiliar with. His voice had deepened, or maybe John had just forgotten how enveloping it was. He had tamed his wild hair and wild words. He remembered Sherlock resting his chin on his head in the airport, wrapping him up in a safety net. He had bought John pyjamas and warm socks, picked out bed sheets for his room, snagged his duffel before even finding John at Heathrow…

A warm crash hit John then, deep in his chest, spreading to every digit on his extremities; it heated him from his ears to the soles of his feet. Sherlock had signed his name on those terrified letters. In all the time he and John had been friends, Sherlock _never_ signed his name, only his initials. Like a magnetic field, John felt himself suddenly being pulled to the sleeping man’s side. He knelt next to him and lifted one hand to brush the cropped curls from his brow.

Leaving was going to be impossible.

 

+

 

John blinked slowly, allowing sunlight to leak into the back of his head. He inhaled deeply, breathing in cedar, cigarette smoke and warm spice. His stretched out over pale grey sheets. John froze. This was not his bed.

 

+

 

Sherlock leaned against the door frame to his own room. “Morning” he drawled. John stared up at Sherlock from the bed he was lying in. “How did I… Why am I…” A look of true confusion overtook John’s kind features. Sherlock smiled.

“You were asleep on the floor by the sofa. You looked uncomfortable, so I brought you here. Do they really make you sleep in the dirt in the desert? They really are tight-fisted.” Sherlock sipped his tea.

John’s face was hot, and he knew he was blushing furiously. “I… I just had a bad dream, and came down for a cup of tea, and then…”

“You’ve always had a way with words, John. Your suit is hanging in your closet. The service starts at four.”

 

+

 

John hopped off the train, his eyes searching the flood of humans at the station. It took hardly any time at all to find him; that stupid coat was a dead giveaway. John grinned, hopped off the last stair of the car, and walked to him. His duffel was slung over his shoulder. He stood tall in his uniform. Sherlock’s mouth turned into a mocking smirk, and he clicked his heels and snapped a salute to his forehead. “Welcome home, Lieutenant Watson.” John punched him solidly in the left shoulder.

 

+

 

John stood between Harry and Sherlock. His feet had gone numb and his knees had begun to ache. His face was stoic and distant, his hands clasped tightly together, puffs of condensation were born from his breath meeting icy air. John’s lips formed a straight line, and his eyes spoke of his emotional exhaustion. Someone else was speaking, but he heard nothing.

 

+

 

“What are we to do on your first night of your first leave?” Sherlock said mischievously.

“Watch a movie, drink tea, and sleep. I’m exhausted.”

“I didn’t believe it was possible, but you are more dull now than when you left.”

John looked up at Sherlock, a hurt expression in his eyes. Sherlock was grinning. He popped open a lager and handed it to John. “You make it through basic and within hours of arriving home, I wound you. Man up, Watson.”

The telly came on and Sherlock flung himself onto the couch, cracking open a beer of his own.

 

+

 

John was stirred from his vacant state by a hand on his back. He blinked several times. Everyone else had disappeared. He was standing in the same place he had been for nearly three hours. It began to rain. Sherlock pulled John into his shoulder and held him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know him better, John.”

“No one knew him, really. Don’t apologize.”

“I’m sure he was a great man.”

“No.” John spoke to the ground. “He wasn’t that great.”

“He created you.”

Sherlock squeezed the place where John’s neck met his shoulder, and the doctor placed his hand over the larger, pale one resting there. Silence nestled in comfortably between them.

“It’s good to be home, Sherlock.”

“It has not been home since the day you left.”

 

+

 

Sherlock wiggled the key into the lock of 221b, laughter spilling out of his beautiful mouth. John was pink-cheeked and buzzing. The door swung open and they began to trod up the stairs.

“Sherlock? Woo-hoo!” A small, fiery woman poked her head out from the door at the bottom flat.

“Mrs. Hudson! Come out and meet my friend.” The woman giggled and stepped out.

“John, this is Mrs. Hudson, my landlady. Mrs. Hudson, this is my Jo—, er, I mean John Watson.” John felt an odd twitch in his chest in response to Sherlock’s mistake.

The precious lady stuck out her hand and shook John’s. “Sherlock has told me so much about you, Captain Watson! It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Oh, has he now? All good things, I hope. The pleasure is mine.”

“Oh yes, all good things… Do you have milk in the fridge, Sherlock?”

“Of course I have milk, Mrs. Hudson. Though I’m not sure how it got there…” He winked at John.

“Honestly, Sherlock…” With that, she turned back to her flat and closed the door. John let out a small, exasperated giggle.

“You talk about me to your landlady?”

“She took my skull.”

 

+

 

John sat comfortably on the floor in front of the sofa, working with his chopsticks to catch a shrimp in his lo mein. Sherlock was in one of his usual catlike positions on the couch, shouting at the telly.

Minutes later, after he had finally succeeded in catching that blasted shrimp, he felt a hand rake through his hair. He stilled.

“Sherlock, what are you up to?” He asks cautiously.

“Caving to nostalgia and indulging in sentiment.” He hummed.

John leaned his head back onto the couch and looked up at Sherlock. Their eyes met, and he saw the impossible: they were wet, smiling and full of an emotion John never thought Sherlock would succumb to.

“Alright, yeah. Feels good. Continue on, if you’d like.” John turned to the television again, certain his heart had exploded into sunlight. The warmth overtook him.

 

* * *

 

**Sherlock,**

**I feel guilty, withholding these letters from you. But I don’t want to ruin whatever it is that is unfolding here.**

**Know that leaving you again will be the most miserable thing I have endured in all my life.**

**John**

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lifted his hand to touch him, but pulled away. What happens when he does? John imagined breaking a spell: Aurora waking up, confused and uncertain. Why was he in his bed? Oh, but John liked him here… Loved those long legs hanging over the foot board, one arm folded up under the pillow, serene face directed at the window. The moon kissed Sherlock in all the best places. His cheeks, his full, pouty bottom lip, his shirtless shoulder and muscle of his oblique, and two, sweet dimples dead center in his lower back, right above the elastic band of his cotton pyjamas. Watson loved the way he fit next to him in the bed. He had kicked the covers down to the foot board. John silently watched his back move with his breathing. He was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

“How long do I get to keep you?”

John felt colder in a matter of seconds. He had been perfectly content pretending he would never have to walk onto the Afghanistan tarmac again. “January third is my flight.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, feeling heavy as lead.

“I get you for Christmas?”

John peered up into Sherlock’s eyes. They were blinking back tears, but glinting nonetheless. John’s breath caught in his throat as he realized how selfish he was being. “Well, yes,” he responded slowly, “if you’d like me for Christmas, I would love to be here.”

“Honestly, John. Regardless of the awful circumstances that brought you here, and I am so sorry for that, by the way, I would think you would be a bit more excited about spending holiday at home, rather than singing Silent Night from your cot.” John noticed the shift in Sherlock’s voice. He was hurt. John understood. He had wanted nothing more than to be with this man, to see him at least once more. He knew there were things left to be said between them. Why was he acting like such a prick?

“You’re right, Sherlock. I’m sorry for being a self-absorbed prat…” Sherlock continued walking without looking to John. “I’m just terrified of leaving again.”

“And you believe I am not?”

“No, I didn’t say that, I just… It’s just…”

“Just what, John? For Christ’s sake, use your words.”

John was taken aback at the sudden outburst. He stopped still on the sidewalk. How the tides had turned. This conversation was so familiar, but John never imagined he would be on the receiving end of it; that he would be the lack of emotion. He restlessly ran both his hands through his hair and interlocked his fingers behind his neck. He stared at the wet cement, watching tiny snowflakes kiss it and then melt instantly. The ending for them was inevitable, and yet they tenderly touched the ground every time before melting into it. He looked up at Sherlock through furrowed brows. What did he want John to say? Shit, what did John want to say?

“I don’t want to leave this, Sherlock. I’m afraid every day that when I wake up, I’ll roll over and find myself in a cave somewhere, and this will have all been a dream.”

Sherlock took two steps, and his beautiful face was staring down at John’s. “But you’re here, and not there. And I’m here, too. So stop being afraid. Knowing I will have to be without you for two years after this is agonizing, but not nearly as painful as watching you fumble through this day, and every other day, simply because you dread something that is ages away.” Sherlock’s eyes were pleading. John's chest clenched. What a beautiful confession to hear from this perfect man.

John straightened up and took a few deep breaths. He smiled. “You’re right, Sherlock. I’m ready for an afternoon cuppa. Does that sound alright?”

Sherlock’s arm shot into the air, hailing a cabbie. “Home again, home again,” he whispered.

 

+

 

“Where to now, Lieutenant?”

“Gaza Barracks, in Catterick. I’m serving my internship there.”

“Four hours is manageable, I suppose. Have you seen the base yet?”

“No, no idea what on earth it’ll be like.”

“Dull. And neutral. In colors, I mean. When do you leave?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Good, thought I’d never get rid of you.”

 

+

 

John glanced up from the pages of his book to see Sherlock typing on his laptop. His tea was propped precariously on a stack of books, steam rising and disappearing. Sherlock’s left leg was tucked up near his chest, the heel of his right foot pushed up off the floor and against the leg of the chair. He was hunched slightly, working intently. John bit his lip to keep from chuckling. He loved stealing tiny bits of Sherlock and storing them away. He knew these would be the thoughts that would get him through the final stretch of hell. Sherlock came to a halt and turned to face John, one eyebrow disappearing into his curls.

“I can feel your eyes, John. What is it?”

“I’m just… observing. And collecting data.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please. That’s _my_ area.” And with that, he returned to his fretful typing. John closed his book and pulled his legs up into his red chair. Holmes had been right. It swallowed you right up, in the very best way.

“Hey, Sherlock…”

“Hmmmm?”

“You haven’t taken a single case since I’ve been here.”

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock pulled his head up and cocked it to the side, like a dog that had heard a funny noise. He looked confused. “Because you’re here…?”

“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t work because I’m here.”

“I don’t feel that way.”

“Alright. I was only asking.” He closed his book and set it on the small table next to him. “I guess I’m going to turn in. A good night of sleep should clear my grumpy head.” He stood and headed for the stairs. He paused in the doorway. Sherlock was covered in the gold light of a tungsten bulb, his hair reading almost burgundy in some places. John could count the vertebrae through the back of Sherlock’s white shirt and watched his fingers run madly across the keyboard. Smiling to himself, he headed upstairs.

“Goodnight, John," the baritone voice echoed from the living room up into the stairwell.

“Night, Sherlock.”

 

+

 

**You were right about the base being dull. It is literally grey. All of it. JW**

_At least you still have a mobile as a means and method to complain. Imagine when we will have to write. SH_

**Trying not to. How’s life? JW**

_You’ve been gone two days. SH_

**And I’ll be gone at least another 148. Twat. JW**

_Mycroft misses you. SH_

**Seriously doubt it. JW**

_You’re right. He doesn’t. SH_

**Piss off. JW**

 

+

 

Watson woke up sweating. In an attempt to kick off the covers, he felt weight next to him. He stilled. Deep breaths fell from a body beside his. His first instinct was to shove it off the bed. Cautiously, he readjusted so the light from the window could lend him a hand. John struggled to focus his eyes and felt his body go weak at his realization. A faint “oh…” fell from his mouth.

He lifted his hand to touch him, but pulled away. What happens when he does? John imagined breaking a spell: Aurora waking up, confused and uncertain. Why was he in his bed? Oh, but John liked him here… Loved those long legs hanging over the foot board, one arm folded up under the pillow, serene face directed at the window. The moon kissed Sherlock in all the best places. His cheeks, his full, pouty bottom lip, his shirtless shoulder and muscle of his oblique, and two, sweet dimples dead center in his lower back, right above the elastic band of his cotton pyjamas. Watson loved the way he fit next to him in the bed. He had kicked the covers down to the foot board. John silently watched his back move with his breathing. He was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

Everything led up to this one fixed point. John could feel it: waves crashing inside his head, drowning out all logic and sensibility. This was long past making sense. Sherlock was his best friend, anyone would be an idiot to miss that much. But the letters, the small moments in time that were once disregarded now made perfect sense, the fear of leaving this life, knowing it was the one he had wanted all along, was growing stronger every day. A life with this ridiculous man: all voice, sass and cheekbone. And it was glorious. The past two weeks and three days had been tumultuous and uncharted, but John thought of Sherlock lazily sprawled on the couch, running his hands through John's sandy salt and pepper hair like it was second nature. Holmes had become unflinching at the idea of sentiment.

John knew then, with Sherlock sleeping soundly next to him, that he had to make a decision.

He curled up against Sherlock’s back. Once he was comfortable, he stilled, hesitating. With the back of his knuckles, he traced Sherlock’s spine, down and then up, only once. He planted the smallest kiss between the man’s shoulder blades, and then his head found his pillow.

He can’t remember the last time he had slept through the night.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**Tonight I decided to love you. I have for ages, we both are aware of this I think. But I thought you ought to know…**

**Damn you and your sentiment.**

**Yours,**   
**John**

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John opened his eyes, and then his heart was in his ears, rattling against the ribs in his chest. “Let me OUT” is what it would say, if it could speak. Sherlock was up on one elbow, hovering over John, his eyes moving over every square inch of him. John was being memorized, recorded, saved into the hard drive of this brilliant, beautiful, mad man. John barely shook his head in awe before deciding. Fuck it.

John woke to a soft thumb rubbing across the knuckles of his right hand. He watched as Sherlock’s massive hands swallowed his own. John turned to face the man he adored, squinting at the morning light.

“Hi,” he whispered.

Sherlock smiled. “Hello.”

“You’re in my bed.”

“You said you needed a good night’s sleep.”

“That I did. And that’s just what I got, isn’t it?”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John right above his eyebrow. “I’m sorry I did not ask your permission before entering your room." He wasn't sorry; John could tell.

John’s heart rate steadily rose. Sherlock’s lips had just made contact with his skin. Christ. “I’m not.” He admired Sherlock’s sleepy eyes and tousled, debauched hair. His voice was rougher in the morning, husky and deep from sleep. It was lovely. Sherlock propped up on an elbow and wrapped his arm around John’s chest, gently kissed his shoulder through his white t-shirt, and nestled his chin there. “Comfortable?” John quipped.

“Incredibly.”

John felt the warmth of Sherlock seeping in through his clothes, catching fire to his skin. He could smell him everywhere, earthy and clean. His pulse wouldn’t steady, he felt his lungs struggling to function properly. He began to feel a bit dizzy and a bit giddy, too.

“Sherlock."

“Yes, John?” The aw never got old. Damn.

“What… what is this? What is happening here, exactly?” He felt Sherlock pull closer to his side, squeeze a little tighter around his chest, and it was then he noticed irregularities in the breathing beside him. Sherlock was just as mucked up as he was. For some reason, this struck a chord with John. It reverberated, causing a rather bold feeling to surface. “I’m not saying I don’t like it. That would be the worst lie I’ve ever told…”

“But you just need to know.”

“Well, yes. Yes, I do.”

“And what it is you’d like me to say?” Sherlock implored. The huskiness of his voice was proving to be a fatal distraction.

“Well…” John dissolved into a million tiny pieces as he studied Sherlock’s eyes, flickering back and forth between his own. His lids were heavy, and Watson couldn’t make out if it was due to sleep or lust. Either way, it made him feel… odd. His eyes dropped to the tip of Sherlock’s nose, sweetly rounded, dipping down to meet the curve between his cupid’s bow. That mouth. God, that mouth. Pinker with the rush of blood waking in the morning, full and pouting and slightly parted. John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to filter through the physical and pinpoint the emotional. What _did_ he want Sherlock to say?

He felt fingertips brushing against his temple, fooling with his hair. He broke out in gooseflesh. He felt a murmur sound from deep in Sherlock’s chest.

Nothing. He didn’t want Sherlock to say anything.

John opened his eyes, and then his heart was in his ears, rattling against the ribs in his chest. “Let me OUT” is what it would say, if it could speak. Sherlock was up on one elbow, hovering over John, his eyes moving over every square inch of him. John was being memorized, recorded, saved into the hard drive of this brilliant, beautiful, mad man. John barely shook his head in awe before deciding. Fuck it.

His hand was in the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, wrapping them gently around his index finger. Sherlock inched closer, slower than molasses in winter, it was truly agonizing, truly, and then he was millimeters from John and he could smell him, his breath warming his cheeks and his ears and burning his lips. Their noses touched and they hovered there, electricity zapping in the tiny space that separated them. Sherlock took a finger to the soft skin behind John’s ears and was tracing a tiny, fine, hell, maybe even microscopic line to his clavicle. Then the hand was cradling the back of John’s skull, holding him as if he was something precious and divine. John gave Sherlock’s cupid’s bow a tiny kiss all of its own, loitering as long as he pleased, before giving that full, flushed bottom lip one as well. The contact was regenerative: John felt young, giddy, new, fresh, awake, mischievous, god so mischievous, and suddenly he was back at University, grabbing the hand Sherlock had wrapped around his wrist and pulling that mouth straight to his. How had it taken this long? He should have done it then. No matter, he was doing it now.

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock looking fixedly at him. His hand traced John’s jaw, catching on the rough stubble left from two days without shaving.

“John, I…”

Watson smiled, melting into his bed, melting into this man, melting into this idea.

Sherlock’s mouth enveloped his: kind, gentle, curious, loaded with tenderness. They kissed in earnest: quiet, desperate, earnest. John felt himself being pushed back into the soft sheets, into the mattress, and then Sherlock’s tongue was running along his bottom lip, seeking permission. His arms were around Sherlock’s neck, hands tangled in those wild curls, breathless and spinning and floating; Sherlock’s large hands were grasping at the thin skin around John’s ribs, hungry and insatiable. John’s neck was covered in perfect, tiny kisses, and Sherlock settled there, his face in John’s neck. His hot breath echoed in his ears.

This was a holiday from real.

 

+

 

_Have you met any female prospects near base? SH_

**What? What the hell kind of question is that? You never ask about women… JW**

_I just did. SH_

**No, I haven’t. JW**

_Interesting. SH_

 

+

 

John couldn’t wipe the stupid blush from his face. It was nearly two in the afternoon and he was still in his pyjamas. He could smell Sherlock in his shirt.

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**Yes. Definitely madly, insanely, desperately, pathetically in love with you.**

**John**

**PS – you are a phenomenal kisser.**

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

John stirred under the covers and reached absently for Sherlock, only to find he was no longer there. John blinked, and then heard it.

The violin. Oh god, that beautiful instrument. Sherlock and strings were a combination that could birth an entirely new galaxy. John laced his hands behind his head and leaned back into his pillow, wallowing in the sound and waves of nostalgia.

It was agonizing and gorgeous. The piece was consistent and strong, the notes flexing and folding under each other when new ones were introduced. It sounded virtuous, confident, but ever so humble. The notes never carried too long, and they were layered together, never one voice overpowering another. It seemed as though Sherlock had spent ages composing it, toiling over the tiniest, most minute decisions, considering the smallest fragment to be of the same importance, just as essential, as the crescendos he wrote. The sounds nestled deep inside his bones and made him feel much too big for his body.

John’s eyes were swimming, and then they were drowning, tears rolling down his cheeks as he lay in Sherlock’s bed, cocooned in grey cotton.

 

+

 

He stayed like that for nearly two hours, listening to Sherlock make love with the horse hair strings of his bow. It grew quiet in the flat and John untangled himself from sheets.

“Sherlock…”

The detective’s eyes found his. They were kind, but spoke of other things repressed underneath the glassy surfaces.

“I’m sorry if I woke you, John.”

“It is beautiful. How long have you spent on it?”

“Nearly a year, after Christmas…”

Sherlock was standing resolutely by the window, violin still poised on his shoulder and his chin in the rest. He wasn’t tired, John decided, but he looked worn in. Not in the way John’s chair was, but in a way that would make one think Sherlock was much older than one would believe him to be.

Sherlock pivoted on his heels to look at John, still in his pyjamas. His hair was ruffled and sticking up a bit in the back, and a sweet glow emanated from his skin.

“Why does it sound so… melancholy in some places?”

“Can you not deduce what its inspiration is based off the time frame I just gave you?”

John’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“Think, John. What else happened almost one year ago, exactly?” Sherlock hiked his eyebrows on his forehead, as if he were giving Watson a hint.

Slowly, John’s eyebrows eased apart and his eyes grew into small, blue moons at full phase on his face. His lips parted in surprise. Gaping at Sherlock, one small word fell from his mouth, barely audible, as if it were hardly worth mentioning: “me.”

 

+

 

John sipped his eggnog in front of the warm fire heating up 221b. He was curled up next to Sherlock on the sofa.

“I can’t believe it’s already Christmas Eve.”

“I can’t believe I have you on Christmas Eve.” Sherlock kissed John’s hair and rubbed his cheek against him.

They had turned all the other lights off in the flat, relishing in the light pouring from the fire. It made Sherlock’s eyes a little wider, the hollows of his cheeks a bit more defined, the softness of his lips more desirable than ever. How he would return to a cot, sleeping apart from this divine human, he did not know. He pushed the thought out of his mind. No, not tonight. Tonight was perfect. Warm and kind and gentle.

Sherlock sipped his rum and coke, his free hand sifting through John’s hair. “It’s gotten so long. Will they make you cut it when you return?”

John chuckled. “Yes, unfortunately. Back to the one inch guard, I’m afraid.”

“A clean cut doctor isn’t such a terrible thing, John.” There was a roughness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. He could feel Sherlock’s lips behind his ears. “Neither is Soldier John,” he whispered. “I’ll admit, I was nervous at first. Afghanistan has made you colder, and it has taken some time to recover your humor and gentleness. You’re still under there, just a bit more stoic, a bit bossier, a bit sexier… which I had previously believed to be impossible.”

John sat silently, chewing Sherlock’s words. How was it that this man could make him feel bitter and heavenly simultaneously? It was certainly a skill he had never encountered elsewhere. John knew Afghanistan had made him harder; he couldn’t change that. He was desperately trying to come around and melt a bit, to chip off the icy blocks from his shoulders. By the time he was loose again, they would send him back to hell. On the other hand… Sherlock seemed intrigued, possibly even flustered, by some of John’s newer developments. He was sexier. Sherlock had said that. John felt wet warmth on his throat, then teeth and tongue, playfully nipping at his neck. His lower lip was grazing slowly across John’s pulsing veins. Jesus fucking Christ. An aroused Holmes would kill him before Afghanistan did.

 

+

 

**Sometimes I wonder if this was the right decision. JW**

_Tell me more. I’m intrigued by this human emotion. I believe it’s called regret. SH_

**Seriously, Sherlock, don’t be such a sod. I miss home. JW**

_Haven’t made any friends at the ever grey army base? SH_

**Why do you have to be this way? Why can’t you just accept that I’m saying I miss you and I miss home and sometimes I wish I had never done this? Could you, just for once, show a bit of empathy? JW**

**Nevermind. Don’t even answer that. Delete it, I’m sure it’s not worth saving to your hard drive anyway. JW**

_I know you asked me to fail to respond, but I feel the need to point out the fact that you did not previously state in your aforementioned text that you missed me and wished you had not joined the military. SH_

**Fuck off, Sherlock. Christ. JW**

_You should have written that first message with as much intention as the latter one. There would have been no question as to what you were trying to convey. SH_

_You’re disappointed. SH_

_I miss you as well, John. SH_

 

+

 

They were wrapped up under the covers, bundled tightly together. John was giggling profusely at Sherlock attempting to impersonate Anderson. They had consumed three drinks too many. Their bodies were warm and fizzy on the inside.

“This is the best Christmas Eve I’ve had in all my life.”

“Surely not, John. It’s only me here with you. Have you even heard from Harriet?”

“Nope, sure haven’t. And yes. Only you, that’s why it’s been the best.” The ‘s’ carried on. John leaned forward and planted a messy kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. “You are the greatest gift I have ever received. Truly. Did you know that, Sherlock? You’re a present. A beautiful, intriguing, clever, fascinating present. I am smitten with you.” John giggled some more. His eyelids were growing heavy. Sherlock said nothing, he only stroked the side of John’s face as he faded into sleep.

 

+

 

The world outside their window was white. It was Christmas morning and fresh powder had hugged every rooftop in London.

John lay awake in bed. Sherlock’s head was resting in the crook of his shoulder, his arm slung over John’s bare chest. There was a tiny, sick seed growing in the pit of John’s stomach. But dread on Christmas was not allowed. He scooted out from under Sherlock and crept into the kitchen.

John put the kettle on and prepared a cup of tea. He quietly climbed the stairs to his own room, which had been, for all intents and purposes, abandoned since the first night John slept next to Sherlock. He rummaged through the drawer of the side table and pulled out the letters he had written while in London, and then composed a new one:

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock,**

**You are aware that words are no strength of mine. But this Christmas, after I crawl out of bed with you and watch you as I sip my tea, I know I will come to terms with the fact that there is no one else in my life that has made me feel nearly as brilliant, kind and worthy as you have.**

**In return, I offer something that pales in comparison: my attempt to do the same for you, for as long as you want to have me.**

**Read the others. Find me when you’re done. I think you know where I will be.**

**John**

 

* * *

 

 

John sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling and twitching with nerves. His hands clutched his knees and he was counting to ten. He had not yet successfully made it past six before having to start again.

The door of the rehearsal room opened and John’s eyes shot to it, terror and thrill clutching his stomach in a chokehold. Sherlock stepped inside, letters in one hand, his other wiping insistent tears from his eyes. John’s heart thudded irregularly. He stood up on the edge of the stage and beckoned Sherlock with his trembling hand. The beautiful creature crossed the room and slowly found each stair. They stood, staring at one another; Sherlock’s sniffles echoed off the walls. John stepped up to him, a small smile biting into his cheek. He remembered first laying eyes on him, standing in this very spot, his body swaying from one foot to the other. He took the letters from Sherlock’s hand and tucked them into his pocket. Then he placed one hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and extended the other, lacing his fingers into a palm nearly twice the size of his own. He looked at Sherlock, who was still leaking, and took the first step.

John led them. There was no music, but he did not need it. He could feel it. It was the brush of air against the small hairs on his arm. It was the sweet breath leaving Sherlock’s chest. It was the humming of the fluorescent lights.

It was Sherlock’s reserved laughter, the sound his gloves made when he pulled them from his longest finger, the clank of the door knocker on 221b. It was the kiss of snow onto melted sidewalk, the shriek of the kettle, the unfolding of stationary. The rustle of sheets, the parting of lips, the drunken laughter of a Christmas Eve. The quiet of London at night, the crunching of leaves under loafers, the tinking of microscope slides.

They came to rest and John stepped away. Finding Sherlock’s wet eyes, he began.

“Sherlock. You are a man of many incredible gifts. You are brilliant, clever, brave, and too fearless for your own good. You are a bully at times, a menacing kisser, the best person to share a bed with. You are calm and composed, but more beautiful than ever when you fall apart. You are loyal, faithful, forgiving and patient. You are a fantastic penpal, a fierce friend, the most human human being I have ever met… and I do not deserve you.”

John paused and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“I am about to leave you yet again. I was too foolish to realize the severity of my decision the first time. Now I am wholly aware of my stupendous failure in decision making, and yet you continue to stand by me.” Sherlock opened his mouth and John raised his hand. “No. I need to say this. It is cruel, what I have done. Allowed myself to give in to the feelings I have somehow managed to keep under wraps, at least in my own head, for the near two years we have been friends. You have been patiently waiting for me to come home to you, hoping for the best but expecting nothing, and now I have done this…” John hand crossed weakly and aimlessly through the air.

“What is “this,” exactly?” Sherlock asked. He voice sounded constructed.

“I’ve let myself love you, and in turn, have introduced misery into our friendship. How could I ever expect you to wait here for me, two years longer, when I was the idiot that left you in the first place? I have not even asked if the emotional aspects were reciprocated.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed hard and fast on his face. His eyes went colder; less overcast and more ice storm. “You can’t be serious.” It was not a question; it was not a joke. It was bitter. “Oh, I am a fool. I am a fool indeed. Here I was, thinking you finally... Are you telling me I am too foolish to understand the consequences of our, _my_ actions? That you just show up and put some ridiculous love potion in my tea and oh no, you’re feeling guilty and responsible?” Sherlock’s voice was biting and cruel. “ ‘I can’t love Sherlock because poor him, he’ll be here all alone and he’ll be miserable and god forbid that happen.’ That didn't stop you from leaving the first time, did it, John?” John’s eyes were huge and tears accumulated in their corners. “Give me some fucking _credit_! I love you because I want to, you miserable, self-pitying prick! You ship off overseas because _you chose that for yourself_ , and then you complain about the decision, let it dictate your life and use it as something to blame when shit gets hard. Your mother's death, Harriet's drug abuse, your father's absolute disinterest in you. A fucking scapegoat. I stood by and watched you choose this; I told you, John! Goddamnit, I told you that you would rot. But no, what does Sherlock know. He’s just a beautiful and fascinating creature to fill my time. It's nothing to do with the fact that he loves me and wanted to prove that he could be the one to hold John Watson together. And then you have the nerve to confess your love for me through letters, as if it were still a secret. You are the only one that doesn't see it, John. You are the only one that doesn't openly accept this "thing that is unfolding." Even so, I would wait another ten years hoping you'd come to your fucking senses. And that’s my decision. I fucking choose who I love and who I miss and who I care for. So don’t you dare stand here and try to tell me I’m an idiot for loving the man who has brought the goodness I didn’t know I possessed to the surface. I _know_ I love you, John, but I don’t think you have chewed all that through for yourself. So go ahead, use the desert as your excuse again. Climb back onto the fucking plane. Deny that this relationship we have created can actually exist. Walk away from the all the things normal people must endure, and leave others here to suffer on their own. Harriet, your father, me. The great, kind, generous, self-sacrificing John. 'Everyone is better off without me. I’m too ordinary and sensible to be worth anyone’s time.' More like too fucking thick to see what’s right in front of him.” Sherlock stepped down from the stage and headed to the door. Standing inside the frame, he turned to look at John, eyes broken and fierce. “You are so afraid. You are so afraid to love me. Christ, man the fuck up, Watson.”

The door stood ajar, but the building was empty.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

The sun bore down on the back of Captain Watson’s neck.

It had been 73 days.

 

+

 

He dragged his feet up the stairs to the flat.

“Sherlock?”

There wasn’t a sound. He stood in the living room, trying to record every dust particle, every scrap of paper, every tile on the wall.

He wept.

He left.

That's what people do, isn't it?


	16. Chapter 16

194 days.

* * *

 

**You escaped me like it was nothing.**

* * *

 


	17. Chapter 17

245 days.

 

+

 

John’s boots crunched onto the sand of the Afghanistan tarmac. A heat wave welcomed him, hovering feet above the cement, distorting the landscape. Or maybe not. Maybe nothing had to make sense anymore. Maybe the hard substance could dissolve and erode away under enough heat. John hoped he would.

 

+

 

**I’m trying to find words.**

**You were wrong. You were wrong about me. I resent you for that. I do.**


	18. Chapter 18

262 days.

 

* * *

 

**You didn’t even listen to me that night. As always, you arrogant asshole, you interrupted me and put all your words in my mouth.**

**I thought I should be apologizing, but I realized just now I don’t want to.**

**Fuck you, Sherlock, for doubting me. Fuck you for not listening. And fuck you for not realizing I have said I love you a hundred times over without ever speaking a word.**

* * *

 


	19. Chapter 19

289 days.

 

+

 

“To you, Sherlock Holmes, for without your friendship, I would surely be lost.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

**I’m sorry.**

**I’m sorry I’m not brave like you are, ignoring all the hard parts of things, pretending like everything will be fine when we both know it would have been agony to leave each other the way we were.**

**Although. I’m in agony now. And have been every fucking day since I boarded that goddamn plane. All 289.**

* * *

 


	20. Chapter 20

341 days.

 

* * *

 

**~~I miss you.~~ **

**~~I miss what we~~ **

**~~I wish you would have~~ **

**~~You must understand, I didn’t know~~ **

**You were right. I was afraid to love you.**

* * *

 


	21. Chapter 21

377 days.

 

+

 

“How long do I get to keep you?”

 

+

 

Bitterness was a paralytic. Love was a much more vicious motivator.

John had grown accustomed to wandering around the desert again. The numbness he felt when leaving London rolled over easily here, like unused mobile minutes. He felt little and said even less.

He knew Sherlock would not write to him again. He also didn’t give a fuck. That bastard destroyed everything and walked away from it. He didn’t give John a chance to validate and explain what he was actually intending to do that night. If the fucking egotistical prick had waited, he would have known John had held a tiny black box in his pocket. 

He missed him. He did. Missed his tall, loopy handwriting; a code used to decipher something clever if you were bright and attentive enough to crack it. He missed his hands raking through his hair, the water droplets glistening on his back after the shower, the way the dust particles danced around him at his desk like tiny wisps.

But none of that mattered now.

 

* * *

 

**I understand now that you thought I pitied you. That I was entertaining your feelings to humor you.**

**I did, in fact, have much larger plans for that night. Before you ruined them. And I don’t pity you. I love you. Idiot.**

* * *

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

399 days.

 

* * *

 

**I thought of your violin today. The song before the implosion. The more I hear it in my head, the more convinced I am that it was about us, not just me. I thought maybe you were the melancholy… but I unfortunately realized that was not true.**

**I’m sorry, Sherlock.**

**John**

* * *

 


	23. Chapter 23

436 days.

 

* * *

 

**Sherlock,**

**I had PT again this morning. I’m getting better. I’m able to run a mile comfortably in 5 minutes 15 seconds. Sounds stupid, but it’s a great accomplishment for me. We ran seventeen this morning, but I did another three after. It’s helped me to think, clear my head a bit. Starting to feel like myself again.**

**I haven’t made any friends here, but I don’t think I ever wanted to, really. I think I realized the day I left you on the platform that this was a mistake. And I don’t want anything to remind me of it once I’m home.**

**Kandahar is still a sad place. The younger children have begun to come round to us, and they will chat, even with their weapons strapped across their chest. It’s such an odd feeling, knowing they see us as harmless and not understanding they are being utilized as weapons themselves.**

**I’m not sure why I am still writing you. I’m not sure if this is still your address.**

**I miss you.**

**John**

* * *

 


	24. Chapter 24

460 days.

 

* * *

 

**Sherlock,**

**Fear is pooling in the back of my head. I’m starting to forget what the loopy scrawl of your handwriting looks like. Missing the pristine condition of your stationary and the irony of opening it with dirty, stained hands. No matter how often I shower, I feel I can never get clean.**

**How are you? I know you won’t respond, so I’ll respond for you. I’ll bet you're working on a really tough case, and you’re agitated by my influx of unwanted letters. Lestrade has been hounding you and maybe Donovan is in your flat, talking in that stupid voice of hers. Mrs. Hudson likely had to toss out rotten spinach from the fridge and jumped in fright at a plate of eyeballs. I don’t know why, but somewhere in my heart, I feel confident in saying you look sallow and gaunt. Tired. Worn. Unenthused.**

**Maybe I’m projecting. Or maybe I’m just hoping you’re as miserable without me as I am without you.**

**Though it’s through a letter, it means no less.**

**I love you,**   
**John**

* * *

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are risking your life for queen and country.”
> 
> +
> 
> “Please, god, let me live.” John was sobbing. A long slice, half the length of his forearm, began to blossom blood from his ribs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you want.” He felt the tip of the knife press under his chin. The tears felt hot and ran through a coat of dirt and filth on his face. He wished he could drown.

John woke to whispers. He opened his eyes to see looming shadows. One stretched a long, distorted limb back and before John could retaliate, he felt metal collide with his skull.

 

+

 

_“They will not appreciate you, they will not take care of you, and if you die, all we will get is an indifferent letter, possibly your dog tags, and maybe a limb or two.”_

 

+

 

Dari* surrounded him. John could see nothing through his open eyes. He blinked. Had they taken his sight? A stabbing sensation overtook both his arms; he was hanging from his wrists, his toes barely touching the ground. A searing pain ran the length of his ribs. He desperately tried to focus on the sense of his skin to decide if he was still clothed, but he could not tell. Panic consumed him. There was an agonizing drone in his ears; he was certain he could feel his brain trembling in his skull. John shook his head, and felt a white, hot heat strike across his legs. He knew instantly he was no longer protected by his uniform. Three more came across: first his shins, then his knees, lastly the top of his foot. Yet again, darkness swallowed him whole.

 

+

 

_God, wasn’t he a sight in motion? Like darkness itself..._

 

+

 

When he fell back into consciousness, he was on his knees, hot metal pushing into his back. He screamed out, and a weight came hard and fast at the back of his neck: the side of his face, protected only by a layer of black fabric, crashed to the ground. The pressure on his neck grew stronger, and he realized he was under someone’s boot.

 

+

 

He sat in the corner; the floor was dirt and there was one dim light suspended from the ceiling. He blinked his eyes, shocked at the reintroduction of color. He cowered at the condition of his body. John was in nothing but his pants, and his legs were battered and covered in dried blood and earth. His hands were bound and hung limply in his lap. He had been gagged with a cloth through his teeth. The room reeked of death and he tried to fight off thoughts of the inevitable.

 

+

 

_“This is fucking absurd,” John muttered. “Why am I always the one? Always fucking taking care of someone else. No one ever fucking takes care of me.” Tears stung his eyes. He hastily ran a hand through his damp hair, shoving his hands deeper inside his pockets._

_“Now that isn’t entirely true, John. Don’t be such a drama queen.” John glanced up and saw Sherlock with a steaming cuppa. The tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. Sherlock gave him a small smile and extended the hot beverage. “This’ll help. Doctor’s orders.”_

 

+

 

A 300 Blackout* was pointing into John’s chest. There were more men than he could count gathered around him, yelling. His Dari was weak. “I don’t understand what you are saying.” The mouth of the gun was shoved harder into his sternum. He whimpered, trying to fight back tears.

 

+

 

_“You are risking your life for queen and country.”_

 

+

 

“Please, god, let me live.” John was sobbing. A long slice, half the length of his forearm, began to blossom blood from his ribs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you want.” He felt the tip of the knife press under his chin. The tears felt hot and ran through a coat of dirt and filth on his face. He wished he could drown.

 

+

 

“ _Don’t you dare do this again, John Watson. Don’t you dare. I couldn’t live through it twice.”_

 

+

 

John woke to hot liquid pouring on his face. He closed his eyes tight and coughed, trying not to inhale. It stopped. John opened his eyes, only to hear the zipping of pants.

Mother. Fucker.

 

+

 

_“I couldn’t live through it twice”_

 

+

 

John waited, buried as far into his corner as he could. Fuck this. Fucking fuck this. He wasn’t an Army Doctor to get abducted, tortured and pissed on. He felt inclined to bitch that this was not, in fact, in the job description; he felt sick knowing Sherlock had lost sleep at night envisioning something like this.

It was idiotic, but he had no choice. He clenched his eyes shut and focused, furiously, on slowing his breathing.

Time passed, but the door finally opened. John knew only one man came to check on him at this time of night. He sat as still as he could. The filthy being approached, his eyes were dark and empty, and leaned close to John, running his fingers carefully down his back. He began to whisper in John’s ear; John never understood what he said, but this was the seventh evening this man had come to him and had John in some way or another. Watson focused on his breathing, trying not to react to the external stimuli. The fingers slipped under the waistband of John’s tattered pants, his hot, wretched breath poisoning his skin. John fought back the strong instinct to wretch. Finally, the opportunity arose. The man’s hand was reaching for John’s chin, to tilt him up and rape his mouth with his tongue. John, with the last, tiny bit of energy his body contained, crashed his skull against the other man’s head.

It’s likely he had serious fractures, but for now, he could see and only a vague dizziness fell over him. Carefully, unable to use his hands to help, he rose to his feet. He steadied his breath, desperately trying to ignore to obvious agony his body was enduring. If he didn’t get out now, he wouldn’t. He would die here in the seventh circle of hell. John was certain he had never believed in Satan until this.

He dug a knife out of the man’s pant pocket and stabbed it into the ground. Slowly, he bent over and rubbed the rope against the blade. He hadn’t the faintest idea how long he had been held. It could have been anywhere from three days to three months; unconsciousness does not help one keep track of time. John felt as if he hadn’t seen the sun in years. The rope fell to the ground and John twisted his hands inside the joints of his wrists. They burned and clicked, like parts of a machine that had been neglected. He stripped the beast on the ground, covered himself and quickly made his way out the door.

 

+

 

How many tunnels did these termites need? He was horribly lost and trying to repress the frenzy that was welling from his heart, spreading like venom through his entire body. He focused on snow, his sheets at Baker Street, Billy the skull, Sherlock watching out the window, face calm and knowing, waiting for his return. He thought of the thin, silver band still housed in the drawer of his side table.

That was all it took.

 

+

 

John was only meters from the exit. It was dark outside, but the pathetic, makeshift hallway was dimly lit with 40 watt bulbs, planted in the sides of the walls. He heard voices in front of him, likely the guards, and tried to figure out how he was going to make it past them.

Quickly, he took off his shirt and wrapped it around his hand. John set to work untwisting the light bulb nearest to him from the wall, feeling its heat quickly seep through to his hand. This was not a cup of tea. It was painful, but bearable. He scurried to the next one and did the same. It was the last light before the entrance to the compound, and most everything fell to darkness.

The guards weren't aware that John had become very fond of the dark.

He smashed the bulbs on the ground and located the two guards as he walked to the mouth of his torture chamber. He deftly sank the metal and glass shards deep into their necks, gave them a solid punch and left them to bleed out. He prayed he could still run a five minute mile.

 

+

 

Adrenaline rippled through him as he ran. He had nearly topped the hill that hid the bunker-like prison when he felt his left shoulder rip apart, splitting into a million shards of blood, muscle and bone. He cried out in agony and fell, rolling into the valley between the next expanses of desert.

 

+

 

Wind surrounded him on all sides, pulling him in all directions. His body was warm and wet, his mouth cracked and dry. Darkness was better. He looked for it, and eagerly rejoined his familiar friend.

 

+

 

_“John…”_

 

+

 

The beeping of life machines was a sick addition. John was dead and didn’t need God’s morbid sense of humor trying to convince him otherwise.

 

+

 

The skin above his brow tingled. What an odd sensation to feel when one is no longer breathing. John focused on the gentle touch. It was so familiar somehow. Cold, but kind. He forced his eyes open in an effort to investigate further. He was blinded by fluorescent lights. A tall figure loomed over him and John could not decide whether or not to allow terror overtake him. Then, there were fingers, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Long, pale, lithe fingers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dari is the most common language spoken in Afghanistan  
> *semi-automatic weapon


	26. Chapter 26

“Sherlock?” John winced at the weakness of his voice. “Where am I? What are you doing here?”

Sherlock’s thumb sweetly caressed John’s cheekbone, and John watched in amazement as tears welled in the detective’s eyes. “Human error.” He whispered, and one hot, plump tear fell and crashed on John’s cheek.

Yep. He was definitely dead.


	27. Chapter 27

John woke with a start, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He gazed around, confused at where he was. He was in a hospital, obviously, but it wasn’t his hospital on base. It looked so familiar… How did he…?

He shook his head in disbelief. How the fuck had he gotten to St. Bart’s? 

“Am I actually dead?” He asked out loud, knowing no one would answer him.

“Obviously not, John.”

John’s skin crawled at the sound. How could he be alive? How could he be hearing this man speak? He hated his mind, hated whatever sick game this was. Wake up, John. Please, god, wake up. This can’t be real. He isn’t here. You are dead in the fucking desert, you moronic twat.

Sherlock cautiously approached the hospital bed. He was horribly thin, his eyes dark and so tired. He folded into himself, even whilst standing. The same fingers that addressed his stubborn, interfering hair now reached out, slowly, to touch John’s. They were cold, as always. John knew, even if he pulled from his best memories, he could not recreate that feeling in his head.

 

“Sherlock…”

John just stared. He struggled for words.

“I wrote you.”

“Yes, you did in fact. Glad to see amnesia won’t be an issue. Your skull is all sorts of mucked up.”

“Why didn’t you respond?”

Silence fell. It was not a kind one, not the comfortable quiet he was used to with Sherlock.

“Why didn’t you respond?” John felt the familiar, hot pinpricks in his tear-ducts.

“I did not know what to say, John.” Sherlock’s voice was hard and on the verge of cracking.

“Piss off would have been fine.”

A weird sound came from Sherlock’s mouth and John thought it might have been a chuckle. A small smile took John’s face.

“John, I…”

“It’s fine, really. We don’t have to talk.” John hesitated, debating whether or not his next statement would be wise. “You look like shit, Holmes. I didn’t expect to be right.”

“Yes, well…”

“You missed me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit, as if being caught in the act of doing something most people disapproved of. “I did.”

“Should’ve fuckin’ written me back, you prick.” John squeezed the beautiful hand, and fell back asleep.

 


	28. Chapter 28

John finished the last spoonful of his chocolate pudding. The nurse had stirred him awake to eat, now that he was well enough for mostly solid foods. He pushed the tray away and rested back into his pillow. Before he decided to return to his most popular hobby as of late (sleeping), an envelope caught his eye.

It rested against a vase of white roses (when had those been put there?), and had “John” written in tall, loopy handwriting. The doctor’s heart fluttered.

He reached for the envelope and opened it carefully, savoring the wrinkle and cracking of the paper coming unglued. Inside, nine sheets of paper were folded and tucked away. He pulled them out one by one:

 

* * *

  _What an imbecilic and poetic thing to say; I have not gone anywhere. You are the one that left._

* * *

 

* * *

  _You don’t seem to understand. You are afraid to love me. How, in turn, does that make me incorrect in my deductions of your cowardice?_

* * *

 

 

* * *

  _We are past simple sentences, now. A grand achievement. I suppose being surrounded by those mindless fools every day has destroyed your vocabulary and upped your vulgarity. I’m not impressed, Watson. Try again._

* * *

 

 

John felt a his stomach churn. These were not what he had hoped for. Reluctantly, he continued:

 

* * *

  _Simply because something will be difficult, we must run from it? Why would I want to run from the one thing in my life that makes perfect sense? Stop being afraid and allow me to show you what I am capable of giving you. Honestly, it is not much to ask. Please, stop being so dramatic. It puts me in a foul mood._

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

_What? Is that a confession I hear? There is hope yet for you, Watson. Now, come home._

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

_John,_

_Larger plans? The destruction of my heart (ew, humanity. eck) was not big enough?_

_Sherlock_

_PS - I love you, you stubborn prick._

* * *

 

 

* * *

  _John,  
How does it feel inside your little head? You must be so vacant. Of course it’s about us. Idiot._

_Apology accepted.  
Sherlock_

* * *

 

 

* * *

  _John,_

_Overachieving rarely helps anyone in life. It simply encourages people to take advantage of you._

_I would talk to you, too. You have a kind face. That must be a foreign concept to them._

_I’ve seen you run faster through the backstreets of London. Come home?_

_Sherlock_

* * *

 

 

* * *

_John,_

_Right you are. Mycroft tells me he believes I will disappear soon; vanish into thin air. I told him on rare occasion, I wish I could._

_I am miserable. But only because I choose to be. It is worth it to know your love._

_Sherlock_

* * *

 

John closed his eyes, pressing the new, warm tears down his cheeks.

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I… I’m sorry, John, but when you left, I went through your room. I shouldn’t have, but I missed you, and I slept there for a while...” John felt excess saliva building in his mouth. He was going to be sick. “And I found a ring.”
> 
> Silence sat, waiting for someone to erupt and spit out lava, ash, and fire.
> 
> John, feeling incredibly awkward and uncomfortable, finally mumbled, “I’m sorry…”
> 
> “It’s... it’s fine, I just thought, you know, that you were eager to come home to me and you never mentioned anyone overseas. I didn’t know you were planning to… to… get married, or propose, or whatever, to someone I had not even heard of. And then I had your letters… I was just horribly confused as to why you would write those things to me when you had someone else.”

John leaned heavily on Sherlock as they made their way up the stairs in 221b. He was trying to stave off a crying fit – being back in this place was a dream, and was even better than before now that it contrasted so sharply against the hellish ordeal that had consumed the last two months of his life. The stairs squeaked and he watched their feet move in unison up the steps. They were quiet; John could only hear his own labored breathing. The door opened, and the dancing, dusty wisps billowed up from the floor and into the light of the window. Everything was exactly as it had been when he left. Finally, he was home.

 

+

 

“I insist that you sleep in my room, John. It would be cruel to make you use an extra set of stairs every time you need to retrieve something from this part of the flat.”

John was warmed by the idea, and quite frankly, would love to spend his nights wrapped up in Sherlock’s smell. He was nervous, though, about Sherlock fiddling through his things… but if he hadn’t done it by now, surely he wouldn’t do it once he was back. A bit of panic rose inside him. What if Sherlock had already found that damn ring? What had he been thinking, leaving it here?

“John, are you alright? Do you need to sit down? Water? Pain reliever? What is it?” Sherlock’s face was precious – tired, concerned and his brows were furrowed with worry. John chuckled.

“No, Sherlock, I’m quite alright, thank you.” John paused. “…I was just thinking that I left a few things upstairs that I’d like to get first, if that’s okay.”

“I’ve already brought all your belongings down. Really, I do insist.”

John’s heart thudded deep in his chest. Okay… No snide commentary from Sherlock about the ring. Is it possible he could have missed it?

“Off you go, get comfortable. Do you need any help changing or tending to your… your…”

“Bandages? Wounds? Battle scars?” John laughed at Sherlock’s attempt to cover the look of mild disgust on his face. “No, I’ll be fine. It amuses me… you solve murders and examine and sometimes wreak havoc on dead bodies. But your stomach turns at the thought of changing used bandages. Is it because I’m still alive?” Of course, John had been teasing, but Sherlock stared at him, intense and unwavering. John felt a bit shy under this line of vision, and began to fidget.

“No, John. It is because it is you who has the wounds.”

Watson nervously laughed and idly thumbed the cotton gauze under the left shoulder of his shirt. “Ah, so it’s only gross because it’s me. Makes more sense.”

“You are an idiot, John Watson.”

“Gee, tha—“

“It makes me feel sick because you were mutilated in a fucking cave in the middle of the desert. I would not wish that on most people, but most certainly never on the bravest, kindest man I have ever met. I also am disgusted with the fact that I could not find and save you any earlier than I did. Perhaps that shoulder could have been spared, if I’d only paid closer attention.”

John’s knees felt like they might collapse. He reached out and steadied himself on the arm of his chair. “You... you rescued me?”

“Of course I did, John. Well. Mycroft helped.” His voice held a bit of childish resentment.

“Like we did for Harriet…”

“Yes, obviously, except you were in the middle of the desert and had no form of tracking device on your person. It proved to be much more difficult… I’m sorry for the delay.” Though his words were structured, John could feel the self-loathing making its way out into the open. Finding his footing, he stepped forward and stood in front of the tall man. John studied his face; he was exhausted, furious with himself, but underneath all of it, the doctor could see the faintest bits of joy and relief. “I do not deserve you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, be careful, the last time you said that we didn’t speak for over a—“

And then John kissed him. He hadn’t planned to, but then again, when did his life ever heed to a master plan? He felt Sherlock’s hands cupping his face, thumbs caressing the bruises above his brow… He was so gentle, as if John could crumble right in front of him. John broke away. “I’m not going to fuck it up this time, and neither are you.” Sherlock blinked and John watched as a tiny twinkle surfaced in his eyes. “I’m going to get out of these trousers and put on something more comfortable. Tea would be nice.” John winked and headed towards the bedroom. Sherlock all but bolted for the kitchen.

 

+

 

They sat together on the sofa, but there was no sharing of blankets, rubbing of feet or raking of hair. Initially, it put John off. Didn’t Sherlock miss him? He wanted to press himself as close as he could to his demi-god and feed off his warmth. John realized later, though, that he wasn’t exactly in a position to be cuddled or snuggled with, given his physical condition. And Sherlock was cautious. Rightfully so... a lot had happened in a year and a half.

“Thank you for the letters,” John whispered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn’t break eye contact from the screen. “Hmmm?”

John found the remote and clicked the mute button. “I said, thank you for the letters.”

Holmes barely nodded his head, obviously not eager to go into any further details.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t mail them.”

Sherlock twiddled his thumbs awkwardly in his lap. He wouldn’t look John in the eye.

“Sherlock? Why didn’t you mail them?”

The amount of fidgeting one man could do amazed John. You would think he was being electrocuted.

“Out with it! You’re making me anxious just by looking at you!”

“I… I’m sorry, John, but when you left, I went through your room. I shouldn’t have, but I missed you, and I slept there for a while...” John felt excess saliva building in his mouth. He was going to be sick. “And I found a ring.”

Silence sat, waiting for someone to erupt and spit out lava, ash, and fire.

John, feeling incredibly awkward and uncomfortable, finally mumbled, “I’m sorry…”

“It’s... it’s fine, I just thought, you know, that you were eager to come home to me and you never mentioned anyone overseas. I didn’t know you were planning to… to… get married, or propose, or whatever, to someone I had not even heard of. And then I had your letters… I was just horribly confused as to why you would write those things to me when you had someone else.”

John burst out in exasperated giggles. Sherlock looked mangled and hurt, clearly shocked by John’s response. “I’m the vacant one?” John managed through the laughter. “Me? I’m dull?”

“There’s no need to make me feel more humiliated than I already do, John, honestly.”

“You think I have that ring so I can propose to someone else?”

Sherlock went back to pulling the hair on his own arm. “Well, yes…”

“It’s for you, you idiotic cock. Or it was, it was meant for you. That Christmas. Before you mucked everything up.” He wiped away the tears from the corner of his eyes and looked back at Sherlock. “I was going to propose to you, before you went off on me like that.”

Sherlock stared incredulously at John.

“Well, say something, please, before I quickly become the humiliated one.”

“I… I’m sorry, John. I truly apologize.” He was completely bewildered.

“S’alright. Sorry you had to find out like this. It was a foolish thing, for me to think that you would want to get married.”

Holmes studied John curiously. “Why would you assume I would be opposed to the idea of marriage?”

“I just… I mean, you don’t really date, and marriage is a very solid and ongoing idea, concept, whatever. A big commitment. Not saying you aren’t committed, I’m just saying you might get… bored. With me. Or whomever else.”

“Whomever else, yes, of course I would get bored. But you are not whomever else. Let’s get you in bed, John. I know you must be exhausted.”

“That’s it, then?”

“What?”

“Did you just say… Did I understand you correctly? You are not opposed to the idea of marrying me?”

“That is what I said, John. Do pay closer attention. You know I hate having to repeat myself.”

And with that, Sherlock scooped John up from his chair, and carried him to the bedroom.

 


	30. Chapter 30

John tossed and turned in Sherlock’s bed. It felt huge and empty with only one body in it; John didn’t blame Sherlock for sleeping in his smaller bed. At least there the feeling of solitude was less… overwhelming.

John propped himself up on his elbows and listened carefully. He heard nothing, but saw a faint light shining under the door, continuously changing. The muted telly. John crawled out of bed and quietly opened the door. Sherlock had assumed his normal position on the couch, but he seemed to actually fit inside it now. The thought made John uneasy – Sherlock was not well and Watson felt like a prick for ever wishing it. He stood by his savior and watched the shadows of the television fall on his face. John gently knelt beside him (he hoped this decrepit body would recover soon) and laced his fingers through Sherlock’s. The man stirred and untucked his face from the crook of his arm. He blinked, as if making sure he was not dreaming, and smiled.

“Alright, John?”

“I can’t sleep…”

Sherlock studied John’s face, attempting to decipher what those words actually meant. He waited, aware that John knew better than to leave vague statements for Sherlock’s interpretation.

“Would you mind…”

“Coming to bed with you?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock unfolded himself from the couch and led John by the hand to his room. The door shut and they were shimmying under the covers together. Watson felt warm all over, like sitting by a fire after a cold walk from the tube. He felt Sherlock fold himself around him. His hand fell cautiously across John’s hip. The doctor smiled, knowing Sherlock had remembered the six inch slice he had earned rested on that side of his ribs. He never forgot anything.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” Jawn. So fucking perfect.

“Tell me how you found me?” John had been dying, quite literally, to know how his knight had come to his rescue. It was an impossible feat, to find a dying man in the middle of the desert, with no tracking device, no leads…

“Don’t make me into a hero, John.”

“You saved my life. I’ll make you whatever I damn well please. Now. Bedtime story. Tell me how you found me.”

Sherlock grinned in the dark and began.

“A week after you left, Mycroft came to 221. You know he never does this, and therefore I believed it to be a conversation of importance: a new case, something to do with our parents, you know. Something dull, but unfortunately significant.” John pushed farther back into Sherlock’s chest. A large hand raked through his hair. A content sigh escaped the doctor’s lips. “He sat on the sofa, I wouldn’t allow him to sit in your chair, and he told me he was concerned.”

“What about?”

“Me. I guess I had not slept or eaten or done things all you normal humans do. Whatever. Anyway, Mycroft knew that the disruption in behavior correlated with your departure.”

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock…”

“You could not have known, John, nor could you have prevented it. We were not firing on all pistons that evening, obviously. Don’t apologize. Miscommunication is a common issue amongst couples.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand from his hip and planted a firm kiss on the middle knuckle.

“As I was saying, he told me he had assigned a team to keep an eye on you while you were abroad. I told him I didn’t care, which of course was a lie…”

“Mycroft wanted to help you?”

“I do not have a history of being kind to myself, John. I have had black moods that possess me the greater part of a year, or three. I’ve done irrational things. I was not a great man before I met you.”

“He thought you would…”

“Well. We are speaking of Mycroft, and he is easily the most dramatic individual I’ve ever encountered.”

“True.”

“Once a week he came here, gave me an update on how you were doing. Told me how conditions near your base were, how they were expected to shift, whether or not it was a risk night for you. I feigned disinterest, but I spent the entire week waiting to hear how you were…”

“Did Mycroft know we were… we are…”

“He knows, of course. He is a Holmes. It was months before we spoke about it out loud.”

John picked fuzz from the duvet, fighting off curiosity as best he could.

“In case you were wondering, and I know you are, he asked me if I loved you.”

John practically stopped breathing. Mycroft was a different realm of human all together. If Sherlock had admitted his love to his all-powerful big brother, John knew this was, in fact, something fierce.

“I told him if he needed to ask, he was an idiot. Then, with you in mind, I told him yes, of course I loved you.” John felt his heart triple in size, pushing against the cage that held it in his chest.

“The day you disappeared, Mycroft informed me. It was locating you that proved to be nearly impossible. Fortunately, the city of Kandahar has a series of security cameras, and one was inside your compound. We were able to hack them and watch them move through the city. I wish I had discovered the cameras sooner. Seeing you would have made all the time you were away from me so much more bearable.”

Sherlock’s voice had started to deepen from talking. It was gruff and throaty, echoing in John’s ears. There were no words to describe how much he had missed him.

“Mycroft pinpointed three locations he determined you could be. We found you last, and nearly too late. It’s very fortunate he is able to take the helicopter whenever it’s needed. We brought a doctor with us, prepared for the worst. They stabilized you as best as they could on the helicopter and we life-flighted you back to St. Bart’s. Oh, and Mycroft blew up the hell hole you escaped from. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“It isn’t that riveting of a story.”

“For saving my life, you idiot.”

“It would have killed me, too, if you died, John Watson.”

Tears stung his eyes. John didn’t know how his tear ducts still functioned. He had cried more than humanly possible the last three months. “Sherlock, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Hmmm?”

John leaned over and pulled the metal chain to the lamp. Sherlock cowered from the light, squinting his eyes. “Sorry,” John mumbled.

“Don’t lose your bravado now, Watson.” Sherlock grinned. “What is it? You need light, so it must be quite important.”

John sat up in bed and crossed his legs. He maneuvered himself to be as close to Sherlock as he possibly could. He took a steadying breath and locked on to Sherlock’s eyes. They were more blue than grey tonight, crow’s feet kissed the corners of his eyelids and reminded him of the way water travels through a delta: steady, slow and in tiny streams. This was the man he could not live without; even when he was certain he was dead, Sherlock still found him in his afterlife. The eyes smiled, awaiting good news, glad at John’s presence.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“And – “

“Let me finish this time, yeah?” Sherlock silenced himself immediately. _“I love you_. You are _mad_. You are brilliant, and clever, and sharp, too sharp for me. When I was dying, you were the one thought that possessed my head. I could not shake you away, nor did I want to. I love the way you laugh, your backhanded compliments, the way you saunter when you walk. I love that you dress like you are sixty years old when you are barely half that, I love that we have a lab in our kitchen, and I love that you fall asleep with the telly on mute. I love the way you look at me when you believe I can’t see you, I love that you’re so much mouthier in your letters than you are in my arms, and that you wear a suit _everywhere_. I love that you only eat when you’ve solved a case, that you admit we are a normal couple when we are the farthest thing from it, and that you come to bed with me without questions. I love the coldness of your skin, the curls at the nape of your neck and the sound of your breathing when you sleep. I love that you move around me, allowing me to be your sun, without even realizing it. You are mine, too, Sherlock. You are my sun, too.”

“Oh… John…” In one swift movement, Sherlock pulled John onto his lap, his large hands gripping into the doctor's hips. “Your feelings are reciprocated.” John reached over, pulled the chain to the lamp, and then he took Sherlock to bed.

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today, loves! Forgive me! I have lesson plans to write tonight! :( A great post tomorrow though, I promise! CT, more Lestrade and Donovan! As always, thank you, you perfect souls, for taking your free time to read my little story. Your words and thoughts have given this narrative a ton of momentum. Couldn't have done it without you! :*

“Sherlock?” John padded out of the bedroom, looking for his lanky counterpart. He peered into the kitchen, wondering if he had started some tea. Nope. He opened to the door to 221b to listen for his voice downstairs, mingling with Mrs. Hudson's. Nope. He walked down the hall and stopped again by the bathroom door. The shower water was running. Oh.

John stood glued to the spot, digging his toes into the hardwood floors as if they would help keep him rooted. He listened as he heard caps click and water fall in various amounts, finding himself curious as to what portion of Sherlock’s body was being catered to. Nervously, he stepped up to the door and grabbed the knob. He stood there for what felt like ages, debating. Finally, he talked himself into it and opened the door.

“Morning.” Sherlock drawled from behind the shower curtain. John’s face was greeted with a blast of hot and sticky air.

“Sorry, do you mind if I go ahead and brush my teeth?” John was never so adamant about brushing his teeth that he would interrupt someone showering. But this wasn’t anyone, of course. It was the delicious Sherlock Holmes, whom John felt he had seen far too little of for being home nearly three weeks.

“If that’s what you actually came in here for… Sure, go ahead.”

Damn him. He always knew. John squeezed a bit of toothpaste onto the bristles of his brush and began to scrub, trying to keep his eyes on the mirror. There was a small window inside the shower, and it allowed sunlight to pour through it. John was gifted a rather explicit silhouette of Sherlock running a bar of soap over his shoulders. 

“So what’s the plan for today?” John asked through a foamy mouth.

“What? John, did you say something?”

“Yesh, I shaid, whatsh the plan fer today?”

Sherlock opened the curtain wide enough to reveal an arm, shoulder, bits of an abdomen and one delicious half of the v that rested between the insides of his hip bones. Sweet god.

John felt a bit of toothpaste drip down his chin and he quickly turned back to the sink, red as a cherry.

“Sorry, I asked you what the plan for today was.” Sherlock propped his elbow up against the tile of the shower, falling into a contropostal stance. Naturally... in a relaxing pose, he _would_ look like a Bernini carving. His hand ran through his wet, inky curls and then across his face, wiping away excess water. John was desperately trying to become as inattentive as possible. Trouble was going to rise if he didn’t, and he knew exactly where it would show up: straight between his legs.

“Lestrade has asked me to help him with a new case – four serial suicides.”

“Ah. So you’ll be out most of the day then?” John couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He knew Sherlock couldn’t turn down work forever, and Watson didn’t want him to. He was trying to fight the now natural instinct of wanting to keep the detective for himself, all the time.

“We will, yes.”

“We?”

“Mmmm, the medical team never works with me, so I’ve told Lestrade I’m bringing my own doctor.” The godly detective winked mischievously. John dropped his toothbrush in the sink. 

“Is that… I mean, can you do that? Isn’t he a Detective Inspector?”

Sherlock laughed. “He is the best Scotland Yard has, but he acknowledges my skill set and is wise enough to remember he needs me. More often than not, he is accommodating.”

“And if he isn’t, you pitch a fit until he is.”

“Precisely.”

Sherlock closed the curtain and returned to his shower. John stood in awe a few moments longer, then left the bathroom, trousers a bit tighter than before.

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhmmm, hi.  
> This chapter is, well... *blushes* QUITE explicit.  
> Read at your own risk.  
> :*

Sherlock swept his Belstaff around his shoulders and tied his blue scarf snug against his gorgeous neck. John stood by the door, feeling a bit anxious. He had heard plenty about Scotland Yard, but was yet to meet any of them. He wasn’t fond of the idea that Sherlock proposed – John had seen enough dead bodies and tended to more than a lifetime’s worth of fatal wounds. Somewhere, though, in the back of his chest, resting close to his spine, was a mad rush of adrenaline waiting to surface. Watson felt a bit sick, knowing he was secretly thrilled that Sherlock wanted him at the crime scene. The tight strings inside him combined with the tight fit of Sherlock’s shirt were enough to make him mad. John savored the tall, dark angel in front of him, those pale eyes and marble skin causing him to itch with want. Something would have to be done about this lack of physical activity, and soon. A man could only resist so much.

“Don’t be nervous, John. You’ll be perfect.”

“I have no idea why you are insisting I come.”

“Several reasons. Mostly because I want you with me. Also, you are a life saver. I just solve the crimes. Thirdly…” Sherlock stepped into John’s space with obvious intention, “I get off on it. And having you there with me will prove to be most… interesting.” His voice was nothing but a growl. Sherlock grabbed a fist full of John’s hair at the nape of his neck and gave a firm tug, granting Sherlock access to an open mouth. It was a filthy kiss, rough and hard and screamed “I will take you and you will love it.” John whimpered into Sherlock’s mouth, and just as he was about to gain his senses enough to reciprocate the I-am-definitely-taking-you-to-bed-later kiss, Sherlock was down the steps and opening the door. And then he was hailing a taxicab.

 

+

 

They arrived in Brixton right after the sun set. Sherlock stepped out of the cab and strolled up to the yellow tape, John following close behind.

“Ullo, freak.”

“Donovan.”

“Who’s this?” A tall, female sergeant shifted her dark eyes over to John, cocking an eyebrow in suspicion. She was mildly attractive, but looked tired and perpetually grumpy.

“Doctor John Watson.”

Donovan’s eyes widened. John looked from her to Sherlock, and back again.

“Hello. Do you always call him that?” John’s voice was a tad prickly. He hadn’t meant for it to be.

“So. The soldier’s real. Interesting.” John pursed his lips and furrowed his brow.

“Sorry? I’m real? I’m standing in front of you, aren’t I?” Sherlock was right, a mouthy twat indeed. John wondered if it occurred to _Sally_ that she only had her job due to the irrefutable genius of the man she was mocking. He made a mental note to remind her the next time she tossed around a third grade insult.

Sherlock nudged John in the arm, as if telling him to stand down. A man with salt and pepper hair and kind eyes made his way to the tape. “Sherlock. ‘Bout time you showed up.”

“Lestrade, this is Doctor John Watson.”

“Captain. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” John felt his ears go red. He knew he was a captain? Sherlock had talked about him. To other people.

“Detective Inspector.” John extended his hand for a shake. The DI took it, and Watson could have sworn Lestrade gave him a small, knowing nod. Watson was certain he now had red cheeks to match his ears.

“This way.”

 

+

 

“What exactly am I doing here?”

“Helping me make a point, John. I told you about the murders.” Sherlock’s eyes found John over the bright pink of the dead woman’s suit. They were dark. John could hardly see the pale irises. Was Sherlock high? “Also, you get to see me work. I do enjoy an audience...” Holmes looked like he could devour John whole, right there. Watson felt gooseflesh on his arms. He imagined Sherlock undressing him with his eyes. Nope, not high. Aroused.

John couldn’t help it: “You get off on it.”

A devilish grin spread across his perfect, pouting lips. “I will later, won't I?”

Fuck.

John realized they were not whispering. Lestrade fidgeted and looked around the room, trying, and failing miserably, to disguise a smirk.

 

+

 

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, from that kind of a weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and...” Sherlock saw John, standing stoic and blank outside the tape, as if he had been there waiting all along. Realization crept in. “Nerves of steel— Actually, do you know what, ignore me.”

“Sorry?”

“Ignore all of that. It's just the shock talking.”

“Where are you going?”

“I just need to figure out… need to figure out dinner.”

 **“** I've still got questions for you.”

“Oh what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket.”

 **“** Sherlock!”

“And I've just caught you a serial killer. More or less.”

Sherlock ditched the blanket, prowled across the lot and met John's eyes with insane ferocity. Watson felt as though he were being hunted. Sherlock grabbed John’s face in his hands and kissed him, in the middle of the street, in front of _all_ of Scotland Yard. The kiss was fierce; heavy with appreciation and graditude; it was laced with a quiet, desperate kind of want. Sherlock released John and kept his hold on the lapels of his coat. John stared at him in shock, soaking in the fact that, had there been any question to anyone about them before, it was answered just now. He forced himself to furrow his brow and look stern.

“You prick! You think you’re so clever!” John was borderline breathless. The adrenaline was damn near killing him. He thought he could feel the swelling of his veins everywhere in his body. Sherlock had almost died; John shot a man; John was just _claimed_ on a major street in downtown Brixton. Who knows how many windows had been looked through at that precise moment.

“Great shot, Watson.”

“You will be the death of me, Sherlock. I swear to god. You can’t waltz around pretending you can escape everything!”

“Now John, don’t be dramatic. I saved you, remember?” Sherlock smirked, apparently pleased with his own joke. “Alright? You did just kill a man.”

“Don’t be a cock, of course I’m alright. And you’re an asshole.” John turned on his heels and walked back towards the main road. Sherlock reached his side in half the steps (of course, damn him and his long, lean, gorgeous, edible legs…) and slipped his fingers between John’s.

 

+

 

The taxi ride back to 221b was a blur. John only vividly remembered Sherlock sliding his hand from John’s knee to the inside of his thigh, and then the detective’s mouth was on John’s neck, breathless, frantic and hungry. Watson was torn between utter humiliation, that poor cabbie, and dangerous arousal. He decided on the latter.

Then, somehow, they had made it through the door, and Sherlock had pinned him to the wall and was peeling John’s coat from his shoulders. Hot, desperate gasps left their mouths between frantic, tortured kisses. John found the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt and unfastened them, locking onto Sherlock with lust blown eyes. They were climbing the stairs and struggled with the door to their place, laughing in heavy, short breaths. Sherlock took John’s face in his hands and fell still. There they were, after all this time, standing in the open door of _their_ flat, hands in each others' hair, lips swollen and pink. Sherlock ran his thumb across John’s right brow, gentle and caressing. Watson’s breathing was ragged with excitement.

“Are you always going to be like this? After we solve a case?” John’s face was still cradled in Sherlock’s lithe fingers, and suddenly John wanted them in his mouth, running his tongue between them.

“Depends. How many people are you going to kill?” Sherlock smirked. “I will admit your presence tonight made it quite a different experience for me… one I’d like to have more often.” Holmes was panting; a smug smile took over John's lips.

The detective lifted John’s chin and admired his doctor’s blazing cheeks, the warmth of his breath and smell of tea filling his nose, his bare chest, scars freshly healed and shining. A line of teeth and tongue found the corner of John’s mouth down his neck, along his left clavicle, and then he knelt down and picked the doctor up. The insides of John’s knees found Sherlock’s hips and then his legs were wrapped around him. Holmes covered John’s back with his long arms, pulling him as close as he could manage, their hips dangerously aligned. Watson's head fell back in pleasure as Sherlock softly kissed the fresh scars of John’s left shoulder. They were beautiful; webbed and splattered, like a Jackson Pollock painting. As much as Sherlock hated himself for being late to the saving-John-early date, this new flesh was evidence of their loss, terror and love for one another. It was a permanent documentation.

They fell into bed, a tangle of limbs, and Sherlock traced the slice down John’s ribs, following the line with his tongue. He kissed and nipped the inside of John’s hip and began tugging at his belted trousers. Those gorgeous hands were at his button, pulling his zipper, yanking off John’s clothes. John was laughing, tracing the lines of Sherlock’s alabaster torso, dragging his nails down the detective’s back, wrapping his hands around his neck and pulling him down, down, down. He was nibbling Holmes’ ear, running his tongue across the taut flesh of the man’s chest, running his free hand across the glorious hardness between those perfect legs. Watson grabbed Sherlock’s hand and slowly enveloped two pale fingers with his mouth. His tongue traced them like a study; they tasted of copper and sweat and warm spice. Sherlock’s eyes were lidded, looking down at John, and a small moan escaped his damp, pouting lips. He rubbed Sherlock through his trousers with his cheek, then kissed him through the dampening fabric. John’s hair was being pulled; the feeling was more arousing than he suspected it would be. “John.” Sherlock was coming apart tiny piece by tiny piece and it was all John’s doing.

Watson stood at the end of the bed and laced his hands under the bend of Sherlock’s knees, and with one good yank, the detective was nearly aligned with the edge of the mattress. The detective's trousers hit his ankles and John hit his knees. He kissed the insides of this gorgeous man's pale thighs. “I have a case to solve.” John murmured against the soft, unseen skin. He breathed in; musk, cinammon, and laundry detergent.

“And what case is that, John?” Sherlock’s voice was ragged.

“What, in fact, does Sherlock Holmes get off on?” John planted a love bite on the inside of Sherlock’s right thigh. His better half gasped, then those long fingers were grasping at John's hair. Watson's ego continued to swell, confidence pouring out of his mouth and into his cock.

“Do you think, just maybe, I’ll be capable of making a few proper deductions this time ‘round?” John had given in to instinct and was ready to eat Sherlock alive.

“I trust no better man for the job than you, Captain Watson. Deduce me.”

Maybe it was Sherlock referring to him as captain, maybe it was his clever wordplay. Or maybe it was just the fact that John Watson had this perfect human being sprawled out under him, trembling at his touch and his every word…

John ran his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s swollen erection. His hips rutted forward in approval, his breath hitching in his chest. John reached his hands forward and short, clean nails clawed down Sherlock’s abdomen before Watson took him into his mouth. The feeling was sinful; the hard on was hot, solid and throbbing. It was delicious. The detective watched in awe as John’s blushing cheeks hollowed, his eyes as dark as three am. “John…” Sherlock's voice was far away, his eyes closed, that gorgeous neck vulnerable and asking to be bitten.

Watson climbed on top of Sherlock and straddled him, a moan escaping the detective’s lips at the sudden change in contact. John grabbed the man’s arms and pulled him to a sitting position, causing their hips, and cocks, to line up perfectly. John growled deep in his throat. He buried his hands into Sherlock’s hair, bit that sweet, exposed neck, and began to rut against him. “Goddamnit, Sherlock. _Fuck_.” The detective wrapped his hands around John’s back and gave each ass cheek a firm squeeze, pulling John’s hips deeper and harder into his. He clearly responded well to John’s foul mouth. Their breathing was ragged; the force of their grinding hips was absorbed by the mattress underneath them. Sherlock asked in broken bits and pieces, “Are you my commander?”

And John thought he could get no harder. “Fuck, Sherlock. Do you want me to be?” 

“Please.” Coming from the detective, it was the equivalent of begging. 

John leaned forward to Sherlock’s mouth and bit and nipped and licked and moaned into the beautiful cavern that shared Sherlock’s brilliance with the rest of the world. Watson couldn't believe he was the only one his genius deemed worthy of kissing it. John yanked open the drawer to the side table. It only took the click of the cap and Sherlock was propped up on his elbows, watching, recording John as he rubbed the lube between his fingers, warming it before coming into contact with Sherlock’s skin. He knelt again, between those long legs, and ran his tongue against that gorgeous prick as he gently slipped in a solitary finger. Sherlock groaned at the sensation, equal parts discomfort and arousal. John's hand and mouth moved in unison and Sherlock’s breathing pattern spiked. A second finger, and then a third, Sherlock’s cock was hitting the back of John’s throat and Sherlock was quivering and moaning and crying out. John was painfully hard and leaking.

“Now. Please.” John released Sherlock’s length with a suctioned _pop!_ and rubbed himself down, in awe of the pleading in Sherlock’s eyes. He focused on his breathing to prevent pushing into his own hand.

“You’re sure?”

“ _Yes._ ” Sherlock bit out, already on the verge. His body was rosy all over, particularly his neck and across his chest. The brown curls at the nape of his neck and near his ears were wet with sweat.

The doctor rested Sherlock’s ankles across his right shoulder. John slowly, carefully, lovingly ran his hands along Sherlock’s ribs as he pressed inside. The brunettes eyes widened, and then fluttered closed as his head fell back into the bed, inky hair spreading out over the sheets.

“More.” The demand made John's mouth water.

John kissed Sherlock’s calves as he filled the detective up. Seated, he pulled the ankles from his shoulder and Sherlock folded his legs at the knees, heels dug into the edge of the bed. John traced the insides of Sherlock’s thighs with his fingers, as he began to slowly rock into him.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John. Just... just. Like. That. It’s… your… this. Perfect.”

“How. Are. You. So fucking delicious?” John asked between each steady motion of his hips. He barely recognized his own lust-ridden voice. What a foreign and empowering sound it was.

Another moan. Fuck. Sherlock had begun to claw at the sheets, gripping them tightly in his hand.

“Faster, John.” John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hips to ground him. The sound of skin on skin was tantalizing.

“Touch yourself.” John pried one of Sherlock’s hands from the sheet and wrapped it around the detective’s own velvet prick. “Now.”

Within minutes of watching Sherlock fall apart under his own touch and John’s torment as well, the doctor reached out, shifting his weight to Sherlock’s shoulder, pressing him down into mattress as his thrusts became more erratic. He was on the cusp and Jesus fucking Christ there was nothing better than this slice of fucking heaven underneath him... of this, John was certain.

“Sherlock…” His gruff voice served as a warning.

The detective began tightening around John and Sherlock spilled over, crying out John’s name (Jawn… there is nothing more perfect in this universe than the sound of his name during his climax), was there an “I love you” in there, too? And John moved to deep, slow thrusts, melting into an all-consuming orgasm; Sherlock was the sun and around him, tiny galaxies burst into existence. He bit the soft skin on Sherlock’s ribs, his fingers digging deep into the detective’s thighs as he slowly came back to Earth.

He removed himself and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s chest, trying to regain control of his breathing. “You have to take more cases.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, apparently I do, if this is how I get rewarded for my brilliance.” He looked smug as hell, and John Watson adored it.

“Come off it, I saved you.”

“We’ll call it even, John Watson. _Commander_.”

John shivered all over. “Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?” The detective was sprawled out on the bed, drowsy and heavy-lidded. 

“Join me for a shower?” _Finally_. John would be able to touch him all over, rinse the suds out of his hair, scrub him thoroughly before sucking him off in the porcelain tub.

“Only if you say you love me first.”

John stared at the beautiful, tousled, man lying on the bed and felt the now-perfectly-normal prick of tears. Had those words actually left his mouth? Here he was, consulting detective, boy genius, self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, asking for nothing more than someone, for John, to tell him he loved him. Sherlock Holmes had the best heart of anyone he knew, and he could not think of anyone better suited for sentiment. He never would have guessed...

“I love you. From your debauched hair to your curling toes.” And he kissed him, deep, sweet and slow, before sweeping him off the bed and carrying him to the shower.

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SQUEEEEEE! I LOVE THIS CHAPTER!  
> I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!  
> I want to keep working this story -- any ideas or thoughts you have in mind for our amazing men, please share! As always, thank you for reading my little story, and for your magnificent patience with my delayed update!

John leaned against the wooden frame of the bedroom door and admired him. It was early, eight something or other, and they had returned to the flat in the obscene hours of morning. Their cases had been consistent, demanding and quite a few of them incredibly dangerous. Last night, John had been certain they both were going up in an explosion of cement, fire and chlorine. It had been pure misery, watching Sherlock’s face twist in panic, watching him as he desperately tried to smother it with indifference. It was a dead giveaway to Moriarty: they were each others ultimate weakness. If either of them needed to be taken down, simply target the other and whatever you desire will become yours.

John’s fingers tapped the side of his hot cuppa as he considered the night’s events. It had put things into an entirely new perspective. It was one thing for John to die in Afghanistan… it was almost expected. But for them to be killed by a psychopath in a swimming pool somehow morbidly connected to Sherlock’s childhood was just too twisted. He watched the detective’s chest move with his breathing, watched the sun come up through the makeshift curtains and kiss his exposed skin, and watched the curls around his face dance from his breath. It was time. And John was ready.

 

+

 

John had big spoon duty that night. Sherlock was borderline inconsolable.

“Sherlock, please. We’re fine. I’m fine. I’m right here. I’ve got you, yeah? I’ve got you.” The detective trembled underneath him. John wrapped his arms tighter around him and kissed his bare shoulders, his neck, his ear. He buried his face in the raven curls and inhaled. Cedar and chlorine. The combination gave him chills he quickly tried to hide.

“This is our life.” John stated matter of factly. “There is nothing safe about it. I’m a retired solider, you’re a genius who solves murder cases. Tell me why it’s fair for us to expect an ordinary, peaceful life.”

Sherlock’s breathing began to steady.

“I run with you because I love this life, Sherlock. If I wanted safe, I never would have started this. You are what I want, _this_ is what I want, and I refuse to stay behind or hide away while you go out trouncing around on cases like the one we had tonight. Alone. We are a team, and I live to protect you. So get used to it. I’m not going anywhere. Not again.” He nuzzled into the crevice of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder.

“You were almost killed.” Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. 

“And? Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

Sherlock rolled onto his back to look up at John. His eyes were sad, desperate, pleading.

“I will not leave you, Sherlock. Don’t even try to convince me otherwise. I don't care how miserable you try to make me. One more day of a life with you is worth a million days of a life I would lead alone. I’d never trade it.” He planted a small kiss on Sherlock’s pursed lips. “I choose you. Over and over, I do.” He kissed him again, and felt Sherlock slacken under the touch. John lifted his arms to cradle the face of his precious detective. Pale arms wrapped around John’s neck and pulled him downward.

 

+

 

The doorbell rang. Sherlock glanced up at the sound from the sofa, temporarily abandoning Ten and Rose exploring New Earth. “I’ve got it.” John leapt up from his chair and bounded down the stairs. He fished his wallet out of his back pocket as he opened the door.

“Delivery for John Holmes?”

“Wha.. Watson?”

“No sir, the order says John Holmes.”

“Yes, alright, that’s me, I s’pose. How much?” He felt his face grow warm. Sherlock.

“Forty-five.”

“And that’s for everything?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Thank you.”

John carried the Chinese take away up the stairs and into the kitchen. He pulled each container from the plastic bag and felt Sherlock at his side, drifting in from the couch at the smell of dinner. A pale index finger and thumb reached out and plucked a shrimp from John’s lo mein.

“Oy! Take a seat. I’ll bring it in. Fingers out of my food, _if_ you don’t mind.” Sherlock knitted his eyebrows in false offense and John gave him a solid punch in the arm. “Sit! And while I’m shouting at you, why did you place the order under John Holmes?” John turned over his shoulder as Sherlock plopped back onto the couch. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response. Sherlock only smirked.

“Everything alright there, Watson? You seem… tense. I know it’s been difficult, transitioning from Eccleston, but honestly, it’s just a show...”

John clenched his jaw. He was trying to seem as indifferent as possible and was failing miserably. So he decided to take the opportunity Sherlock provided as a scapegoat.

“It’s not that Eccleston is gone. Don’t get me wrong, he was a fantastic doctor. I just feel so badly for Rose. I think Clara is the only other companion that had to watch their Doctor die, or regenerate... 9 isn't much like 10. That must be so hard. I couldn’t imagine…”

John glanced up from arranging rice on their plates to find Sherlock studying him. John thought by now the detective would be biting back laughter, but he looked perplexed and curious.

“Is that what it was like, Sherlock? When I came home from Afghanistan for my father’s funeral?” The doctor felt a pang of guilt deep in his ribcage. How had he let that terrible place change him so much?

“No, John. You were still there, I only had to hunt a bit to find you. Afghanistan changed you; it would change anyone. But you are still the man I knew before you left. You are the same Doctor you always have been, Time War or not.” Watson’s vision blurred instantly. Sherlock kissed John’s temple and ruffled his hair before walking to the cabinet. He retrieved two glasses and filled them with wine. John chuckled.

“Classy.” He wiped the silly tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his oatmeal colored jumper.

“What’s wrong with having wine with take out?”

“Nothing. I think it’s perfect. A perfect night for wine with take away.” John beamed at him before taking their food into the living room. They settled into their spots: John sat on a cushion in the floor, Sherlock on the sofa.

The episode played on: John laughed at Cassandra’s words coming from Rose’s mouth and Sherlock murmured at Tennant’s ferocity. The plates were cleared and set on the floor, only small grains of rice and soy sauce left, the glasses in process of being drained. It was a night just like any other for them. Take away and some telly to wind down. The habit was a beautiful thing; some people are habitual about things that don’t matter: putting their socks back in the same place they pulled them from, organizing the refrigerator, washing their hands. This was a routine event that John loved. Feeling Sherlock's gorgeous, baritone laughter behind him, wrapped up warmly in his favorite pyjamas, and knowing that they would crawl into bed together, wake up together, and start the process all over again was the best habit John had ever had. 

John took the glasses into the kitchen to refill them, and plucked two fortune cookies from the bag. He grinned at the mini desserts in his palm. He handed Sherlock a cookie and watched as he absent mindedly unwrapped it.

“Wait! Guess mine first.” John unwrapped his cookie and cracked it open. He held the tiny strip in his hand and glanced up eagerly at Sherlock. Sherlock sighed as though he were bored.

“A small, lucky package is on its way to you soon.”

John beamed, impressed as always. “How _do_ you do that?”

“Spoilers.” Sherlock winked. “Think the fortune means you?”

John rolled his eyes and popped the cookie into his mouth. “Your go.” John muted the telly and stuffed his hands into his pyjama pockets as Sherlock opened his fortune cookie. The tiny paper was unfolded in his fingers and the detective froze.

John took a seat on the opposite side of the sofa and found Sherlock’s eyes. They were wide and soft and full of a million, beautiful things. Watson willed himself to hold it together, because this was the best moment of his _life_ , the most important thing he would ever do, and he would be damned if tears would muck it up.

“Sherlock.” The detective’s eyes were red and blinking furiously. He seemed so small and young on the couch, curled up with his cashmere covered feet stuffed deep into the sofa cushions, holding that tiny slip of paper as if it were the most precious thing he had ever encountered. John knelt in front of the couch, and pulled the ring from his pocket. He watched Sherlock’s chest hitch at the sight of it, and John grinned. He was a live wire. Fear left him and was replaced with courage, want, and excitement. The eyes of the man he loved were blue tonight, and John held them as he spoke: “I can't let another day of our _ridiculous_ life pass without telling you this… I love you. And to love you has been the most incredible gift I have ever received. I cannot remember my life before you were in it, nor do I wish to picture my future without you there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. You have saved me in hundreds of ways. While I know I am not worthy of your love, please consider giving me the honor of proving my affection for you every day of the rest of our lives. We can die any day, last night was evidence of that, and I want you to know, whenever that happens, that I love you more than myself, more than anything else this earth could ever muster up to offer. Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?”

The detective was grinning, but even more magical than that perfect, blinding smile were the precious tears rolling down his blushed cheeks. John’s heart clenched at the sight: Sherlock shedding tears of happiness. It was a first, and he filed it away in a place where it would never be forgotten. “A bit redundant, don’t you think? The paper already covered that.” Sherlock's voice was broken, beautiful and thick with emotion.

John chuckled and raised his eyebrows high on his forehead, feigning impatience. “Answer the damn question, Holmes.”

Sherlock unfolded himself from the couch and leaned forward, left hand extended. “I didn’t say no, so yes, obviously it’s yes.” John allowed his own tears to escape as he slid the slender, silver band on Sherlock’s finger. It fit famously, and the sight of it made John’s heart explode into starlight in his chest. Sherlock held it out to examine it and wiped away the tears with his other hand. He leaned forward, touching his forehead to John’s.

“I love you, John Hamish Watson. I am honored.” Sherlock kissed him then. Every patch of skin the detective came into contact with went up in flame. "Obviously... obviously it's yes." he whispered. You could hear the love in the detective's voice as the words kissed their way from John's mouth to his ears. 

“Clever. This proposal. I never would have expected it.”

John’s face lit up. “Do you know what a compliment that is? To have evaded the great mind of Sherlock Holmes for one evening?”

“I can imagine it’s quite a magnificent compliment, indeed.”

John rolled his eyes, kissed the brows of his future husband, and plucked the fortune from his fingers. He walked into the kitchen and placed it on the fridge next to a photo of the two of them, wrapped up in coats and scarves. He secured it with a small magnet.

**“Sherlock, will you marry me?”**

 John shook his had. He'd said yes.


	34. Chapter 34

John stared blankly into the mirror, fooling with his tie for the fifth time. His felt as though his nerves were exposed and everything, even the tiniest breath, made his insides lace up tight. He took a deep breath, feeling the gray jacket shrink around him as his chest expanded. There was a quiet rap at the door.

“John?”

“Sherlock! What are you doing here? You know I’m not supposed to see you before—“

“Yes, I am aware of this ridiculous tradition you are so inclined to adhere to. I just… I wanted to give you something before. I’m sliding it under the door. I’ll see you soon.”

John bent down to pick up a bundle of envelopes, some faded and others bright white, looking as though they had just been sealed.

“Sherlock?” John waited, hoping Sherlock was lingering outside the door, listening for his response. “I love you, you insufferable git.”

“I heard that.”

John grinned and sat down in his chair. Carefully, he untied the small knot holding the tiny documents together. He plucked the oldest one up, out of habit, he supposed, and turned it in his hand.

_Lt. John Watson_

There was no address, no date, it only had his name. Carefully, he pulled out the letter, yellowed with age. Air left John’s chest as he came to the realization that this tiny sheet could be nearly five years old. He unfolded a single sheet to expose his favorite tall, loopy, practically illegible script:

 

* * *

  _John,_

_I should have kissed you, there on the platform. You touched my hair. I knew then, in the way you looked at me. I had an idea, a faint one. It was there nonetheless, but no courage to follow it. I’m sorry for that. I know you’re only in Surrey, but I do miss you. And I will visit. Even though you never should have left._

_SH_

* * *

 

John watched as the tears fell against the brittle paper. These were going to wreck him before he ever hit the aisle. Damn that perfect man with his swooning words and indefinite cleverness.

The second envelope was a bit more square:

 

* * *

  _John,_

_Sorry the Neutral Zone is treating you so poorly. I warned you that it would be dull. You looked thinner last weekend when I came to visit. I know you’ve been doing so well with PT, but I worry. What can I get you to make it better? Do you need something? Extra jam? More milk for tea? They better be feeding you properly. I have included a few photos from my visit. I made copies, so we both have our own._

_SH_

* * *

 

 

Inside the envelope were three Polaroid snapshots. John thumbed them lovingly, in complete awe at the raw, sentimental punch these gave him. Sherlock had taken photos… just to remember something that had happened. Not only that, but all three were photos of John, and they were stunning. Not in reference to looks or appeal, of course, but in the way Watson had been captured.

The first photo was of John sitting on the bottom bunk in the barracks, uniform bottoms blending in with the gray-khaki poly-blend of his blanket. He sat slightly hunched, his forearms resting on his thighs and legs relaxed. He had just glanced up at Sherlock, mid-laugh, his blue eyes squinting at some smart ass comment the detective had muttered. Something about repressed sexual energy or the support of individuality on base.

The second was from dinner, and was a bit out of focus, likely due to Sherlock taking the photo in such close proximity. It was a side profile of John’s face, staring up into darkness. He looked so calm, mouth resting in a small, contemplative smile. Watson considered the stress of training, Surrey and his first year of internship and was astounded by how young and _happy_ he was in these photos. They had eaten out on the patio that night, much to Sherlock’s (possibly feigned) dismay. John had ordered a lager and fish and chips. Sherlock, of course, ate nothing.

John brought the last image to the front of the stack and a small hum left his throat. John was standing on the platform, likely on the last day of one of Sherlock’s visits. His back was facing the camera, his face turned to the right, eyes hunting through the crowd. In the background, a train had come whirring into the station, blurring defiantly when asked to sit still for a photograph. John’s eyebrows were knit together up high on his forehead in a look of worry and dismay.

John remembered that Sherlock had mentioned two copies. John laughed, knowing that wasn’t the case. It was a Polaroid. Who copies a Polaroid? Sherlock obviously could not part with them, not until ten years after the fact. He carefully tucked the precious images back into the envelope and pulled out a third.

There was no name on this one. The envelope was plain white, like something you’d send a bill off in. A small slip of paper rested inside:

 

 

* * *

  _Why must you be so painfully wonderful? It is so bothersome, to love someone you cannot hold. All I want is to touch your hair. Is that so much to ask?_

* * *

 

 

 

John’s hand covered his mouth to stifle a cry. Tears were rolling in steady streams down his cheeks. He was so terribly, painfully, wonderfully human. All this time, tucked under tailored suits and sweeping trench coats and tart, biting words this beautiful creature had known love. And it had been for John. It had always been John.

The next slip had no envelope. It was a simple piece of grid paper, folded into quarters. The top left quadrant read:

 

* * *

 

_I’ve run you off yet again. I am trying to convince myself it is for the best: how could you possibly love me? I found a ring. I have slept in your soap scented sheets for months now, and I can’t imagine who it is that has stolen your heart with such ferocity. At night, I desperately dream that maybe, in a parallel universe, it could have been me._

* * *

 

 

 

The next envelope to surface was bent and ripped in two places, with a return stamp on the front. It was addressed to his base in Afghanistan.

 

 

* * *

  _John,_

_I do not know how to apologize for the abyss I have dug between us. I do not know who this ring is for. I do not know when I will see the blue of your irises again, that oatmeal jumper you love so much, or your hands wrapped around a cup of tea. I do not know if you are eating and sleeping properly, if you are safe, or if you believe me to be the bane of your existence._

_However, something of importance has come to my attention:_

_I am very well aware that I, in fact, love you. I love you, John Watson._

_Isn’t that wizard?_

_Sherlock_

* * *

 

 

 

The handkerchief was out of his pocket and at his eyes. He let out a wet, choked laugh. So he had watched Donna’s season. He stared at the letters, heat consuming every inch of his body. Elation flooded him. There was one envelope left. It was crisp and cream in color, with his name written on the front, in gold metallic pen. John Hamish Watson Holmes.

 

 

* * *

  _My beloved John Holmes,_

_I wanted you to know, before we exchange our vows, that this is the greatest day of my life. I love you. All the way to the marrow of your bones and the atoms of your thoughts._

_Sherlock Watson  
_

_PS – you’re the wife._

* * *

 

 

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dearest darlings.
> 
> Thank you for following this little story o'mine the whole way through. This was my second experience writing fanfiction, and my steady readers carried my momentum. I could not have done it without you.
> 
> This is the last chapter in my story, at least for now. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. : *

**+**

 

“I refuse to walk down an aisle as though I were five years of age, John. It’s absurd and insulting.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a long, breathy exhale. “Sherlock, I proposed, I asked you. That’s how this works!”

“Oh, so what, simply because you beat me to it, _I_ have to be the one to walk to you?”

“Wha— What?! Thank you, so very much, for making it sound like such a chore! The great Sherlock Holmes, too proud to walk a few meters, so here John, you do it instead! You are a complete dickhead sometimes, are you fully aware of that?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, turning to fume toward the window.

John sighed. “What do you mean, beat you to it?”

“Oh honestly, John. Context clues. It was a matter of time before one of us asked the other, so of course, I was prepared.”

“Prepared…?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stared John down. “Yes. Prepared. With a ring. To propose. Are we actually in the same conversation or…?”

John’s mouth fell into a small oh. His eyes were blinking at an alarming rate and Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “John? Is that such a surprise?” The detective looked mildly offended.

John chuckled. Sherlock jerked his head, glaring pointedly, all his curls shaking in response. “Amused?” Watson wrapped one hand around his ribs and bent over, laughter spilling out of his mouth in bellowing waves.

“What is so funny?” Sherlock spat.

“You… proposing…” John barely managed between gasps of air. “What would that… even be like?” Tears were rolling from his cheeks, his face completely pink, eyes squinting and happy.

Sherlock rose to his feet and stood in front of John. The doctor looked up at him, wiping away the wet spots from his face, grinning a nine million watt smile. The smile went crooked and John tilted his head in curiosity. He was glowing.

Sherlock fell to one knee and encompassed one of John’s hands in both of his. John’s eyes grew huge on his face, a perfectly typical expression of absolute shock claiming his features. Sherlock smirked.

“John.”

Watson’s breathing went wonky. Sherlock’s eyes widened. He had only said his name. John’s reaction made no sense. He had said his name a hundred times, possibly thousands. Something about understanding the context of the single syllable coming from his lips changed the meaning of it entirely. Fascinating. It was the knee and the forthcoming conversation that made it exceptional.

“I ought not have ever met you. You have been the absolute ruin of me.” John’s eyebrows knit together, confused and a bit put off. “The Work is no longer a priority, I use words like fond, excited and _please_ , I feel uncomfortable if you aren’t in my presence and sentiment has become an all-consuming disease.” John’s mouth turned up at the corner. “But it has always been you, John Watson. You keep me right. You are the soul and heart I so desperately lack, the patience I cannot muster and the kindness I do not possess. For whatever mad reason you have found me worthy of your time, I cannot imagine, but I will not try to convince you otherwise.” A tear rolled down John’s cheek. His eyes were bright and dewy, alive with emotion and reaction to Sherlock’s words. Sherlock tucked John’s lengthening hair behind his ear and then pulled a small, navy box from his inner suit pocket. “Marry me, John Watson. Marry me, and allow me to test the boundaries of your sanity for the rest of your days. Let me ruin dinner, forget to take the kettle off, shrink your jumpers in the wash, complain incessantly at the stupidity of Christmas and leave toes on the kitchen table.” The doctor was covering his mouth with his free hand, grinning straight through it and trying not to weep. “Marry me. I love you, I do, and as idiotic and senseless as it is, I have savored every second of it. From the beginning, John, and, with your approval, to the very end.”

Before Sherlock could open the box, John was on him, near him, flush against him; had they in fact melted together into one? The kiss shot fireworks through Sherlock’s body, charging the marrow of his bones and rearranging the atoms in chest. He began to cry, feeling overwhelmed by both internal and external stimuli. Months of practicing had just come to a cusp, and now he spilled over, out of his protective coating and into the open. He grasped John’s face tighter, kissed him a bit harder and with so much more intention. He had to tell him; John had to know. Sherlock could not _live_ without him, breathe without him, make an inane and pointless decision without him. He had floated so far away before John waltzed in with his clever mouth and kind, blue eyes. John had run with wolves and never wavered. The detective was finally grounded, steady, safe, and happy. _Happy._

 

**+**

 

John stood behind closed doors, feeling as though he may just black out and hit the floor. His future husband stood on the opposite side of those heavy, oak panels, waiting for him.

John heard the violin. He closed his eyes and laughed softly. The first few notes rang true and familiar: Shine, by Collective Soul. This was the first of a million times he would cry today. He was certain. He lifted his lids to the sound of creaking doors and gasped at the sight.

Sherlock stood at the end of the aisle, tall and dark and elegant. His neck was craned into the chin rest of his instrument, his wild curls more untamed than ever, a full-force grin taking his lips at the sight of John. Holmes suit was black, and around his neck was an eggplant bowtie. His eyes were a magnificent silver, sending out their own light source even from meters away. John clasped his hands in front of him and stared straight up, attempting his usual method of fighting off tears. He failed, and smiled at the insistent leaking of his eyes.

He dug his hands into his pockets, more out of habit than nerves, and casually strolled down the walkway, as if he were headed for the lift in Scotland Yard. When he arrived at the front of the aisle, Lestrade and Mycroft were standing on opposite sides. Watson stepped up to elder Holmes and wrapped his arms around him. Mycroft stiffened, his face twisted in shock, and a few attendees chuckled. John took his place next to the man that made his life make sense, and Sherlock finished the last notes. A sweeping memory overtook John, Sherlock standing on a stage, informing John that he only ever played for his family. Yet here he was, playing for whoever happened to hear: a confession of his love for John Watson. John’s guts warmed up; how had he earned the ability to be the exception to every single one of Sherlock Holmes’ rules?

Sherlock returned the violin to its home and turned to face John. Watson could find no words for the expression on Sherlock’s face, but the closest he could compare it to was pure, perfect joy. Sherlock’s fingers laced through John’s, and the service began.

They had chosen to write their own vows, much to John’s reluctance. While Sherlock could charm his pants right to the floor, Watson knew what he was capable of in a crowd. Regardless, they were here, and John hadn’t the faintest idea what was about to come out of the brunette’s mouth.

“John Hamish Watson…” John flinched. Really? This was how he was going to begin? A full name was for scolding, not for public humiliation. He glared at Sherlock, giving his one and only warning. Sherlock’s face turned smug.

“I vow to put body parts in containers before storing them in the refrigerator.” A wave of laughter swept through the crowd, and John smiled, pleased to know others appreciated Sherlock's morbidity and love for the odd as he did. “I vow to wash my own socks, since you cannot properly pair them, replace the earl grey when we run out, with my favorite brand as it is better, and to wash the tub after experiments. I vow to try to remember things of significance, like your birthday or our anniversary, to pick up take away on evenings you are particularly cross with all the world, and to mute the telly when you go to bed.” Their life flooded in front of John’s eyes: what a perfect one it was. “John…” Jawn. God, yes, even now. “I vow to look after you, take care of you and protect you, as long as you are alive and breathing on this earth. I vow to do my best to never take advantage of your kindness—“ John scoffed. “generosity, and forgiveness. I vow to listen before I dissect your words and thoughts. But more than anything else, John Watson, I promise to remain the man you have always known and have always loved. You have endured a lifetime of hardship, war and tragic loss, but through all things, remained the same. I vow to be a rock solid foundation you can lean against, to love you and cherish you for everything you were, everything you are, and everything you are yet to become.” John swiped his handkerchief over his face, eyes smiling at Sherlock. The lithe fingers now held a silver band instead of a menthol cigarette from a past-life, and with these, he slid the ring over John’s knuckle, bringing it to rest in its new home.

John took a deep breath and sighed. “Damn.” Quiet giggles and whispers carried. “I’ve made you quite the sentimental prat now, haven’t I?” Sherlock chuckled softly, nodding. John held out his left hand and examined it. He wrapped all ten fingers around Sherlock’s.

“You make me better. It’s a silly concept, I know. Thinking loving someone can make you a better person. But it must. Because all the amazing things that have happened in my life happened when you were with me.” Sherlock blinked and John watched his eyes redden. “Any courage I have ever shown, and hard decisions ever made, anything worth celebrating or being proud of, you were there. By my side. My companion, through time and space, fear and fearlessness, easy and difficult.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand tightly and bit his bottom lip. “You taught me to observe my surroundings, to appreciate the tiniest details and acknowledge that they, in fact, can change _everything_ , that it’s okay to love Eccleston more than Tennant, that Thai take away is better after midnight and trench coats aren’t just for cold weather.” Another snicker fell among their treasured guests. “You have taught me what it feels like to be loved, to stand up for myself and to accept who I am, to be worthy of love and terrified of losing it. You have made me feel worthy, Sherlock. You were the first man to make me feel worth keeping.” The detective inhaled sharply, a small tear rolling down a silly cheekbone. “I do not use my words often enough. You are irreplaceable, and living without you would be one of the hardest things I would ever have to endure, and I never want to do it again. Thank you, for everything you have given me, shown me, taught me… To know your love is to live a wonderful life of adventure. I want to be your companion for all of time. This is my vow.”

John slipped the ring over an elegant knuckle and Sherlock pulled John’s hand to his mouth, planting a kiss on the silver band that now rested there. And then they were given permission: Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s back and pulled him as close as he could, ribcage to ribcage. The silver eyes were staggering and John drown in them, certain it was the best decision he had made in all his life. Fingers were at the nape of his neck, twisting their way into the wild curls, and then their mouths met. The world went white and John smelled cedar, cinnamon and Sherlock. _Home_.

 

* * *

 

_John Watson-Holmes,_

_"This is the best day of my life. I think I was blind before I met you. I went out in the rain and suddenly everything changed. I felt as if I just woke up."*_

_Date tonight at 8 pm. Wear your blue tie. You know where I will be._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *First Day of my Life, Bright Eyes


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